Now that we’re past that kickoff game against USC, and the
debacle that was the first few drives, maybe you folks who are new to this here
Hoodoo freak show will understand the importance of the aforementioned. See,
you can’t toy with the emotions of Football Loki…no! He is not to be trifled
with, his wrath is swift and violent.
You see, these wins that pile up on our collective doorstep
aren’t from the whim of fate, nor merely products of the hard work and talents
of our beloved Crimson Tide. No, a string of dominance the likes of which
Alabama has enjoyed over the last decade can only be attributed to the power of
this here Hoodoo we lay down in the space, week in and week out. Hear me, oh
Hoodoo believers and infidels alike, as Football Loki’s appetite for debauchery
is ravenous, and his thirsts are rarely satiated.
You may be thinking to yourself, “Now Ole OWB must not
realize we are just playin’ some buncha scrubs from the Pinetucky hills…we
don’t need to offer much Hoodoo up on thi particular altar, do we?”
To those of like mind, I implore you…do not make the error
of Hoodoo neglect which resulted in the ungodly acts of the Iron Bowl of 2010.
Let not some future Johnny Manziel-ish quarterback slay our beloved Crimson
Tide simply because you thought you could skimp this here Hoodoo collection
plate. Let us not hunt you with torches after an inaugural CFB Playoffs loss
just because “you were all out of embarrassing stories.” For shame!
Make no mistake, just because the opponent from the meth
mills and whiskey stills of Western Kentucky doesn’t hail from a Power 5
conference doesn’t mean we can’t take them seriously. As Our Dark Lord himself
often implores, nay, demands…the most important game is the next game.
That said, this week our Tide faces the Western Kentucky
Hilltoppers. While WKU may not sport the level of talent of our previous
opponent, these hill people of questionable breeding are not to be trifled
with. Whether due to methamphetamine usage or some elaborate genetic tinkering
between men and quarterhorses, this offense is as fast as the day is long.
Bama’s human barricade of a defense will have their hands full this weekend,
that much is certain. Therefore, while I fully expect some of you are saving
extreme Hoodoo for next week, let’s not forget to put down some prime-time
material right in the here and now.
Now, as for me, I am referring back not to my youth for this
particular tapestry I’m going to weave for you people, but to the more recent
adultish time of my life. I say “adultish,” as I firmly believe that I am still
a work in progress in that regard. I mean, does an adult adorn his walls with
Star Wars “art” and read comic books for hours on end between breaks of Pokemon
Go? Probably not. But this story I’m about to place at the feet of dear Loki is
one of the most embarrassing things that has happened to me since I have been a
responsible pillar of my community (stop giggling), and it is something that
retracts my mortal soul in the deepest of cringes even when I think about it
today.
As many of you, my friends and faithful followers, have
observed in lo these many years that your narrator has been a’travelin’ this
lonely Hoodoo Highway, I sometimes fail to use sound and proper judgment in the
living of life itself. True, I am a man of many (read: many, many, many, many
to hear Mrs. OWB tell it) faults, a tattered tapestry of Southern manhood
frayed at the raggeding edges. Those flaws are not representative of my
intentions, however, as I truly set forth in all that I do with a heart to do
good, to bring light into the world, and to richly and positively impact the
lives of my fellow man. (Y’all ain’t buyin’ that last part, are you? I didn’t
think so. Worth a try though.)
True, most of the tales I’ve spun in this here Hoodoo ledger
have been of the debaucherous kind, as they pre-date my current era of maturity
(pronounced in the South as “mah-toor-ity”). They harken back to a far more raw
and untamed time in my life, a time when I didn’t foresee the consequences of
my actions (or at least I didn’t choose to recognize the ones I did see.)
But the evolution of your narrator began in earnest as I
reached the age of 26. Though I had been somewhat responsible as a stellar
student and the eldest child in my extended family, I was known in my immediate
circle of confidants to engage in dirty deeds on the sly. Because of my highly
developed level of intelligence (why are you snickerin’?), I was able to
negotiate myself around trouble, to circumnavigate the consequences that befell
my peers of lesser intellect. I avoided the discipline that may have otherwise
forced me to change my ways, and I was an expert at gaming the various systems
set in place to limit folks of my demeanor within the web of society’s
ever-present net.
The pivotal event in the coming of age of good ole OWB was
the birth of my son, Patches. An unexpected gift (and those are the best kind,
no?), I remember the icy-water shock that ran through me when my
girlfriend-cum-wife informed me of his coming. It was utter terror. I didn’t know
what I would do…all of my plans (and they were extensive, many involved duct
tape, suitcases of Miller High Life, copious amounts of marijuana, Doritos and
a loaded .357) were immediately shattered….back-burnered…shuttered. I mean, I
could barely take care of myself, especially within the midst of my nightly
Southpaw binges (there was a time I’d kill an 18 pack by 9 p.m.). And a man
full of Doritos and cheap beer (with or without a .357) is in no state to care
for, change the diaper of, or attend the feeding needs of a young’un.
Not to mention, the financial ramifications were dire. Prior
to this point, my bi-weekly budget broke down something like this: $40 gas to
get back and forth to work, $55 for the half-ounce I burned like a dadgum
chimney stack, $500 for my half of the rent and utilities, $40 for my cell
phone bill, $100 for wining and dining honey-pies and $100 in weekly tithes to
the Church of Miller (Latter Day Saints) and the Evan Williams Tabernacle of
the High and Holy Ghost. At the time, I really wasn’t sure which part of that
I’d be able to whittle down to accommodate a whole new passel of needs from a
person I had yet to meet, but the numbers weren’t looking good.
I did my best to become the man I thought I needed to be in
preparation for my child. I gave up smoking (cigarettes) cold-turkey before he
was born. Just decided at the start of the seventh month of his gestation that
the day had come to stop. I finished the pack of cloves I had, and that was it.
Now, in the interest of full-disclosure, I will admit to having enjoyed a cigar
infrequently with a special group of friends, but that has been the full
spectrum of my tobacco use since the birth of my son some 15 years ago.
I also weaned off the 18-pack-a-day beer drinking schedule I
had built up. I know that sounds ludicrous, but I’m a big ole boy, and I can
sop up liquor the way a hush puppy soaks up gumbo gravy. Not to mention, being
partially of Irish stock (with a little Viking blood and French lineage I am
loathe to claim) improves my ability to imbibe large quantities of alcohol,
oftentimes in excess of the daily (or in some cases, weekly) recommended
dosage. But in the interest of my coming son (and wallet…and liver), I decided
to prune back that portion of my life as well.
Patches was born, and I’d never been so happy. I held him
fresh from his mama’s womb and walked him to the nursery on the day he was
born, instantly bonding with him. I didn’t know at the time the challenges he
would face in his life (my boy is touched by the ASD), but from the time I
stared down at his little red face beneath a mantle of dark hair, I knew I was
a changed man. He had done for me what church, counseling from my elders, and
the fear of law and order were unable to do: just by being, he got me to change
my ways, to walk a less rocky path. For that, and for the amplifying effect
that dynamic received when his little sister was born five-and-a-half years
later, I am truly thankful. Quite candidly, they saved my life, gave me
something other than myself for which to live. Love those kids…I’d take a
bullet, nay 10 bullets, for them without batting an eye, as any good father
would.
As a newly made man and dedicated father, I sought out
opportunities to further bond with my son as he began to awaken into his childhood.
As residents of the Deep South, one of the primary vectors for father-son
bonding comes in the form of youth sports. Our church (the church we would go
to when we went to church, the church that hosted my kid’s pre-school and Bible
school programs) had a fantastic developmental sports ministry. It’s a great,
faith-based program where kids are allowed to be competitive, but only so much
so. Sure, everyone gets a trophy, but there is also room to give added
responsibility to the better athletes and help them develop along a
sports-centric track as they grow to middle school age.
Because Patches is an insular, introverted kid, it took a
little arm-twisting to get him interested in playing any kind of sport with
other kids. That is, until somebody said the word “soccer.” For whatever reason
(and God knows, it wasn’t anything I instilled in him), from the time he was a
kid he really loved the idea of soccer. I mean, for a child, what’s not to
like? Endless, mind-numbing running, kicking shit around the field at a goal…in
essence, it’s a game made for kids. When I mentioned the church had a soccer
program, he instantly showed interest. So, we signed him up.
Now personally, I’ve never been into soccer much. Always
viewed it as foreign, too much cardio, not terribly interesting. Because of
that, I had little foundational knowledge of the sport at the time, and so in
light of that, I decided not to coach a team. But as I watched the kids
practice and play that season, I got the itch to get involved. I saw how fun it
looked for the kids and their coaches, and figured Patches and I could use a
little of that type of interaction. So I made up my mind to coach in the next
season, which just happened to be flag football.
I had a blast, in short. Patches was five at the time, but
it was great. I had play-card wristbands for the players on the team with
simple plays printed out on them, mini-Lane Kiffin-like Waffle House placemats,
if you will. I could designate a play pre-snap by letter (Play A, Play B) and
they could check their wrists and actually run the play. We had a pass-heavy,
fun-and-gun offense that shredded opponents. We were undefeated until the final
game of the season, when we were ordered to lose so the kids could learn to
deal with the agony of defeat. Had a great time, and I coached flag football
for several years…as long as Patches wanted to play.
This was my segue into coaching basketball as well, and his
is where the crux of this particular Hoodoo tale will gain traction and pick up
momentum. After a few years of coaching three sports (I ended up coaching
soccer, too, after learning the game), I was paired up for basketball season
with a rather rigid co-coach (like the Sith, there were always two per team)
named Ruffin. He was an investment banker by trade, a somewhat inflexible fella
who smiled infrequently and had the demeanor on the court of a Marine Corps
drill instructor. He didn’t leave a lot of room for the kids to, you know, have
fun, constantly haranguing them back into line on the routine occasions that
they drifted from drills during practice.
And boy, we had a few live-wires on this team, I tell you
what. After working with this particular group, I was halfway inclined to buy
stock in pharmaceutical companies that made ADHD medication, as running an
organized practice was something akin to wrangling a passel of flamin’ ferrets.
These kids were all over the place, slingin’ balls at each other, breaking into
impromptu wrasslin’ matches while waiting in line to run free throw drills. It
was absolutely crazy.
I had one kid named Joe-Nathan, a good-hearted young’un
who’s RPM meter was stuck somewhere around 8000 revolutions at all times. He
was good as gold, a pudgy little freckle-faced half-ginger with a raspy voice,
owlish spectacles, and a motor that ran wide open all…the…damn…time. Keeping
him occupied was a full-time gig, and for whatever reason, that boy gravitated
to me and stuck like dried grits on an unwashed pan. Everywhere I went, there
he was, right up under me, bludgeoning me with a barrage of inane, unanswerable
questions at a machine-gun pace.
“Coach OWB, Coach OWB,
today at school we learned about zebras. You like zebras? I like zebras. Are
zebras black with white stripes or white with black stripes? Why don’t giraffes
have stripes?”
“Coach OWB, why is a
basketball orange? I don’t like orange, mama says orange is the color of the
devil. Don’t know why basketballs are orange, daddy said it’s cuz they’re made
out of old cantaloupes. Are basketballs made out of old cantaloupes? I don’t eat
cantaloupes.”
“Coach OWB, what’s
your favorite food? My favorite food is pizza, and my other favorite food is
hamburgers. Coach OWB, if they made pizza out of hamburgers, would it be your
favorite food? How about a pizza hamburger? That’d be cool, wouldn’t it.”
I loved the boy, one of my favorite kids to coach not named
Patches, but I seriously thought about investing in wireless ear buds just for
practice. I couldn’t get a thought to process cleanly once Joe-Nathan showed up
with his verbal barrage, but I couldn’t be mean to him because he was such a
good kid. Coaching him taught me patience, as dealing with him after a long day
at work tried every fiber of it I had spun in my life to that point.
One of my favorite and most rewarding moments that season
(and of all seasons) was when Joe-Nathan’s mama approached me after practice
and thanked me for my attention to her son’s constant needs.
“Coach OWB, you don’t
know how much what you’re doing means to Joe-Nathan, he comes home after
practice every week talking about you, he just loves you. His dad has to work a
lot, and it’s hard for him to make time to do much with Joe-Nathan when he gets
home. I just wanted you to know the time you spend with him means a lot, and we
appreciate it.”
I was touched, nearly to the point of tears. I’d started
coaching for my son, but in the process, I had unexpectedly done some good for
someone else’s son. It made me feel wonderful to know I had helped make a
contribution to someone else’s life. Neat feeling.
Now, back to the central story: specifically, the simmering
feud between me and Gunny Ruffin, the Roundball DI without a Corps.
I liked Ruffin just fine, as I can get along with pretty
much anyone in a public forum. Secretly, I found myself dissenting with many of
his practices and methods, and though we’d have conversations that bordered
upon kindly disagreements, we always seemed to talk around the matters rather
than confronting them.
We got along for the sake of the team, but soon, there
developed a certain level of competition between us. It was silly, really, for
grown men to behave in such a way, but such is the competitive nature of grown
men at times. When we were waiting for the kids to all show up for practice,
we’d shoot free throws. Now I must tell you, your humble narrator is Shaq-ish
when it comes to toeing the free throw line. I am not much a shooter, much more
of a defender and rebounder. I can post up with the best of them, but when it
comes to actual skill, I am far more Bill Lambier than Bill Walton.
Ruffin, on the other hand, had a natural shooting stroke. In
our pre-practice shoot-outs, he’d quietly hit three free throws for every one I
sank. This stat didn’t evade his notice, and he’d taken the opportunity to
point out to me that I wasn’t extending my elbow correctly (while smirking, of
course). Giving me instructions like I was one of the kids…the nerve. According
to Bro Code, that’s something you simply do not do: you never offer athletic
advice to a fellow man unless it is solicited. It stuck in my craw to be sure,
as I perceived myself a better overall athlete and coach.
This dynamic perc’d throughout the season, though it never
bubbled fully to the surface. We had a good year, a pretty solid team full of
junior players who improved dramatically throughout the course of the season.
As the year drew to a close, we could take comfort in the fact that we’d met
our goal of developing players, nurturing their blossoming talent, and teaching
them good sportsmanship. That last bit was especially important in this
particular league…probably the most important lesson they were expected to
learn.
As part of our year-end celebration, we decided to have a
parents-players game in which kids and their parents would be paired up into
two teams to make things even, one team led by Coach Ruffin and the other led
by your narrator. What fun, right?
I also saw this as my chance to land one final
passive-aggressive stab at Ruffin before we went our separate ways forever.
After all, I’d never be able to out-shoot him, but I could damn sure out-scheme
and out-lead him. The kids saw me as the “fun” coach anyway, and we announced
our plans, pert near every kid wanted to be on Coach OWB’s roster.
We divvied up the teams and contacted the parents who would
be playing in the game. Everyone was excited…good times! I was particularly
excited about my chance to best Ruffin beneath the public eye, as all of the
players’ parents would either be playing or present to watch. To make things
even better, the director of the church sporting program, Dennis, had heard me
talking about the plan to a parent and seemed interested.
“Whatchall doin” OWB, having a parents against players
game?”
“Well, sort of. We’re pairing players with their parents and
playing against each other, we have enough for two teams.”
“Oh man, that sounds awesome, never done that before. You
mind if I come watch?”
“Sure Dennis, matter of fact if we end up with uneven teams,
you can play if you want to,” I responded. I mean hell, if I was gonna be settlin’
public scores with Ruffin, may as well let everyone be party to the dawning of
the OWB basketball dynasty.
Time came for the game. Parents came out, not in their usual
work-day outfits, but in shorts and shirts, athletic clothes. We separated into
teams, one led by Ruffin, the other by yours truly. Dennis had come out ready
to play, so we put him on Ruffin’s team because one parent on his team had to
call off due to unforeseen circumstances at work (we’ve all been there.)
The whistle blew, and we got after it. I had prepackaged a
few schemes with the kids on my team during the previous few practices, so we
were ready. Of course, I ended up squared off one-on-one with Ruffin a good bit
of the time, and it was glorious. I had about five inches of height on him, and
I was determined to play a physical game and big-boy him. After all, all the
shooting ability in the world doesn’t mean a damn thing if there’s a man-wall
blocking those shots.
My strategy worked well for a long time. Ruffin, easily his
team’s best shooter, couldn’t get a shot off to save his life. He hated
passing, but he had to do a lot of it. Despite my outstanding defensive
performance, I couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the score was relatively
close throughout much of the game. This frustrated me, as my competitive nature
pushed me to want to win at all costs. I couldn’t stand the thought of Ruffin
smirking at me over Little Caesar’s pizza at the party afterwards (a slight
doubly-venomous due to the presence of that pizza), both of us knowing that he
had bested me in what would likely be our final meeting.
With everything on the line, I felt my natural aggression
begin to rise, and I became far more physical than was necessary for a church
league basketball end-of-year-party. I was hip-checking, swinging ‘bows on
rebounds (Rodman reincarnated…wait, he’s not dead, is he? Or is he?), and
generally making an over-competitive ass of myself. I was becoming the guy I
hated coaching against, and it happened so fast, I didn’t notice it until I was
fully involved.
It wasn’t terrible, however…or at least I made it look less
terrible by smiling and laughing while swinging my elbows as if to feign the
intensity that was actually bubbling over inside of me. (In all honesty, I can
be an utter psychopath…but that’s not my Hoodoo.)
I noticed that the spectator parents were beginning to give
each other looks…you know, the “what the hell is wrong with him?” look. I’m
sure I was putting on a show, hurling my 6’4”, 250 pound self around the court
amongst a bunch of eight year olds and their parents. I should be ashamed for
that reason alone (though I wasn’t at the time.)
The game was close…tied with a minute left to play. I simply
couldn’t let this chance at a reckoning slip between my fingers, to do so would
be disaster. I didn’t want to lose to Ruffin for sure, but I didn’t even want a
tie…after all, that tie would last forever with no chance to ever break the
stalemate. Wholly unacceptable, that was.
The clock ticked down, and we had what I figured would be
the last possession of the game. I had called my players over to the side
before we inbounded the ball, telling them what my plan was. We’d work the
triangle offense until I could get open down low while burning the remainder of
the clock. When I was open, someone would get me the ball and I’d use my height
advantage to ensure that we scored. In other words, I wanted to score right
over the top of Ruffin’s head to win the game and feed my ego.
One of my kids passed it in to me up high, and for whatever
reason I saw Joe-Nathan was covering me defensively. I was proud of him, he
broke down into a wide stance with his hands out just as I had taught him,
grinning and challenging me. I saw Ruffin was just standing under to goal,
waiting, as he had diagnosed my game plan and was ready for it. I kicked the
ball out to the wing, who against my orders decided to immediately take a shot
from the three-point-arc.
The ball clunked off the rim and bounced back towards the
top of the key where I was standing, still guarded by Joe-Nathan. In an
aggressive read, Joe-Nathan saw that the ball was going to bounce over us and
roll into the backcourt, and he got the jump on me like a dang ole meercat. We
both sprinted after the ball like velociraptors chasing dinner, though only I
knew the true stakes that were riding on this one particular outcome.
I was a lumbering mastodon ambling along next to
Joe-Nathan’s average housecat, so great was the frightening size disparity
between your narrator and the poor kid. He was fearless in his pursuit,
determined to beat his mentor to that cantaloupe-fashioned roundball. Watching
it from the bleachers must have been terrifying, something akin to watching a
beagle chase a speeding delivery truck, when one winces at the potential
outcome if the seemingly oblivious pup happens into the path of the vehicle.
I’ll be honest, y’all. I’m not exactly sure what happened
next. All I know is that the Chucks I had selected for the day’s activities
were size 13s, and I usually wear size 12.5s. Maybe it was the extra toe room,
maybe I just wasn’t as athletic as I thought I was. Maybe there was chewing gum
stuck to the floor. Could just be that I’m old.
Joe-Nathan was just in front of me when I felt gravity
pulling me forward. I tripped, and in my competitive haze, I had simultaneously
lurched my arm out reaching for the ball as I launched forward.
Great effort, right? Except…Joe-Nathan was between me and
the ball. Instead of grabbing the ball and cradling it against my forearm, I
totally kagged the kid’s legs out from under him in an act of unsportsmanlike
conduct and leg-sweeping the likes of which would have made the Cobra Kai dojo
proud.
Everything happened in slow-motion from that point on.
Seeing the trajectory of things to come, all I could do was scream out
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” all John Rambo-style. Joe-Nathan, now airborne, sailed over the
ball with a look of sheer terror on his face. Because this turn of events was
so completely unexpected (I mean, how did he know his favorite coach was going
to SWEEP THE LEG), he had a look of shocked, betrayed terror upon his face as
he soared through the air. It all happened so fast, he couldn’t get his hands
up before landing, and as a result he face-planted onto the hardwood court,
glasses first.
The court was completely silent. The squeaking of rubber
soles stopped, as did the fevered cheering of onlookers. Everyone was shocked.
Though I knew I had not tripped the kid on purpose, the eyes of the bystanders
had not deceived them. To someone who was not in my head, it looked for all the
world like the coach just took out one of his players (in a very dirty fashion)
to try to get to the ball. One could have heard a clipboard drop.
Then…after the silence, there was the screaming cries from
poor Joe-Nathan that split the ear of all unfortunate enough to be in the
vicinity. Banshee-like in quality, with the tone and timbre of a dang ole
tornado siren. Of course, Joe-Nathan was inconsolable. His mama ran onto the
court and collected her sobbing son (along with the broken bits of what had
previously been his glasses). She looked disapprovingly at me (stunned, hurt,
shocked, angry) despite my profuse apologies and declarations that it had been
wholly unintentional. Joe-Nathan cowered into her bosom, looking up at his
former hero and tutor like a betrayed victim, the way a whupped dog looks at
the person who just beat him.
Other parents followed her onto the court, all
staring at me like torch-bearing mob participants waiting to string me up. I
heard the percolating murmurs: “…ought to be ashamed…,” “what kind of man does
that to a kid…,” “it’s just a game…” I tried to make amends, but my apologies
fell upon deaf ears.
And the coup-de-grace…I cast my eyes over towards Ruffin. He
and Dennis stood there, arms crossed, speaking lowly to one another in tsk-tsk
fashion with looks of condemnation stretched over their faces.
Well, f$%^ me runnin’. This was quite the revolting development,
indeed.
I was so incredibly embarrassed, and I had busted the hell
out of me old knee-joint in the process of hurting my pride (and the face of an
eight-year-old.) I still had my son to think about too, as he had been excited
about going to the post-game party. But I knew attending the party after this
debacle was out of the question for me. The only thing I could think to do was
complain about my knee and beg leave to go attend to it. After all, I felt like
going to the party would only increase my chances of being hung from the
highest rafter among this disapproving group.
I went to sit in the car, where the shame did nothing but
bubble and boil. I had no idea how to make it right, since my apologies fell on
deaf ears. And why wouldn’t they? People had watched with their own eyes as
some deranged coach put a kid down hard on the floor in a friendly basketball
game. In a church, at that.
The requiem: I never coached again at the church. As a
matter of fact, we stopped going to that church altogether except on rare
occasions, and I trace this absenteeism back to that faithful fall day when my
competitive streak got the better of me. It is shameful, to be sure. Possibly
even sinful, byt some standards. My neck prickles just thinking about it. I’ve
never seen Ruffin again, and I hope to keep it that way.
In this tale, pride goeth’d (is that a word, probably not
but I’m using it anyway…what is the past tense of “goeth” though…wenteth?
#OldEnglishProblems) before the fall. Literally.
Revel in my shame, O Football Loki. Feast upon my rich embarrassment.
So long as you ensure us a victory over the God-forsaken people of the Kentucky
hills, my sacrifice will be a willing one. Roll Tide.
