The Accidental Lineman

I was prepared to enter my freshman year at the University of Denver knowing it would be the first year in seven that I did not play football. Fate had a different plan.

My brother was working at a gym called 24 Hour Nautilus when he met a slick charmer named Aaron Bernstein. Aaron told my brother how he was starting a club football team at D.U. and my brother volunteered that I was planning on attending in the fall and that I was indeed a football player. So, this was the most informal and inauspicious way a young man was recruited to play college football.

Training camp was like no other you could imagine. There was no face paint, but it was a circus and we were all the clowns. We had a twenty-eight year old (ancient) quarterback named Joe Bob Taylor, a left guard who was a smooth talking ladies man, a shifty tailback named Mungo, a 3L middle linebacker, a Brooklyn born six foot, six right tackle who was skinnier than any offensive lineman had a right to be, a twig like tight end, and then there was me. I was through with football! Except, here I was playing college football by accident.

After having a high school career in one of the most discipline laden football programs in the state, it was shocking to see such an informal practice. Drills were held in Washington Park in Denver because we were a rag-tag band of rebels without a field. We were playing touch football when we should have been hitting with helmets and shoulder pads. We were practicing off campus looking for recognition by a university where hockey was king, and where varsity football died approximately twenty years before we matriculated.

I played left offensive tackle and we were in the huddle calling a play. Once the play was called I became the leader of the offensive line because somebody had to, and I shouted, “Ready, break!”

And then our right tackle, New York, I’ll call him- I don’t remember hisname- chimes in speaking Brooklynese , “Chill, dude!”

This was not my kind of football. I was used to being one of the King’s knightsand here we were all jesters.

So, we muddled through training camp and the weekend before classes started (but the students had returned for some good fraternity parties, but that’s a different story) we had our first game against a semi-pro (grown men’s little league) team called the Colorado Cougars. I was starting both ways, which didn't happen in college football unless you were club level players without varsity recognition. I had not been a starter since ninth grade because the high school I came from was heavy in lineman. And they drastically underestimated my talent, but I kid my high school coach.

The cougars kicked off and we were able through skill, athleticism, cunning and a little cheating, to return the ball to the one-yard line. I don’t remember the play we called, but we came out of the huddle full of confidence ready to ram the ball down these garbage men’s throats.

We wore brand new crimson jerseys with twelve inch gold numbers. Joe Bob Taylor was our quarterback-picture him with a thirteen on his back- and he started barking the signals like he knew what he was doing. It was my understanding he had some college football experience back East. I was number 75 playing left tackle, nineteen and full of fire. Aaron Bernstein was wearing 64, my linemate at left guard, and he was a veteran of the Thomas Jefferson State Championship team.

The snap count was three, so I held my pent up power and I was ready to blast across the line into that clown in the black jersey. JoeBob called out the first “hut” and the defensive line rushed across the line of scrimmage. I thought, well, this is good. We needed five free yards. But the center had forgotten the snap count and not only did we fumble the ball and give up a touchdown, our quarterback was lying broken on the ground.

After we got the ball back we dutifully drove the ball all of fifteen yards before punting. I remember making a tackle or close to one on a punt or kick off coverage-it might have been this one-where I almost pulled the ball away from the ball carrier with a clear path to the end zone. I often wonder how that would have changed things for us.

As the cougars offensive team came onto the field, I waited. I played both ways and was a defensive tackle when the Cougars had the ball. I stood across from an imposing figure of an offensive right guard. He was shorter than me, but he looked as if he could bench press a Toyota. His sinewy body was extra intimidating because his dark skin accented every rip and fold of his musculature.

At first I could feel him pushing me around as a few plays were run. This is ridiculous. I thought. I am not going to let this man push me around the whole game. I became relentless like an angry Rottweiler and Sixty-six had my bone. From then on, with every play I was rushing across the line and defeating him on run plays or on passing plays, throwing him out of the way like a rag and harrowing the quarterback.

After the game was over, which we lost handily by the way, our offensive line coach came over to me and said, “You really kicked Dean’s ass. You know he was an All-American at McNeese State.” At that point I nearly fainted, but I gained confidence knowing I had bested him all day long. That night I went to a beer party, which was about the only thing club sports have that the varsity does not.

My season playing on the club football team at D.U. taught me some lessons. First of all, it affirmed what I knew-that I could play. I wasn't an All-American that year, but I became a skilled pass blocker, as I kept my quarterback safe after some shaky starts. I also had some images for my mental highlight reel. One was the way I handled a very large defensive end on the Wyoming J.V. team up in Laramie. Another was when I was playing defense against Colorado College's J.V. and I ran a stunt (on defense) and the ball carrier had the misfortune of running a counter in my path. It was like a semi-tractor trailer running over a V.W. Bug. Another was when I made a text book tackle on an interception return. My teammates said they slowed him down for me. I figured if you couldn't make the tackle, don't razz me because I did.

Another great moment was when the team had stopped at Burger King in Laramie after the Wyoming J.V. game and our right tackle, who had been diagnosed with high blood pressure sat in front of a Double Whopper with cheese and French fries and started to salt the fries, but then stopped announcing in Broklynese “Oh, I gottta lay off the salt!”. I guess the Double Whopper didn’t have too much salt.

If I have any regrets, it is that I didn't pursue football after that season. I played fairly well that year and really without the benefit of weight training. I am sure if I had decided to go for it, I could have been a player on some local team. There are not hot tub time machines, so we'll never know for sure.

The other thing to remember is not to tell your coach to f-off, which I did in the last game when I wanted to rest a play or two after being shaken up a bit, and the old man told me to get my ass off the filed. It was not my proudest moment, but it is a teachable lesson. If you are going to tell your coach to f-off, make sure it’s in the last game of the year. I’m only kidding. Don’t tell your coach to f-off at all.