Dick in hand, Terry Johnson stops in front of my locker on his way out of the shower.  Sweat drips from my chin as I look up to find it three feet in front of my face.  I drop off the bench into a squat to ram my head into his chest as I’ve been taught to tackle but Terry’s sidekick Wayne Hooper pushes him away leaving me glaring at a row of red freshmen football lockers.

 

 

 

            Terry had been my first African-American friend when we were both legacy players on the Bound Brook Pop Warner little team.  His brother Sam was carrying the big team to an undefeated season.  My brother Alan who had been the quarterback and leading tackler on Bound Brook High School’s county championship teams in 1963 and 1964 was the big team coach.  Terry was a fast halfback like his big brother but was also fumble prone.  I was a running quarterback like mine but didn’t like tackles.  

 

One Sunday after our little team game Terry had come over to my house for lunch before the big team game.  Mom kept pleading “Whyn’t ya boys get in the house” while we took turns returning punts in the yard.  When the pimiento cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup were ready, we wolfed them down and ran back up to LaMonte Field. 

 

That night Mom said “Why’d ya wanna bring that darky here?”  It was the late sixties and race riots in nearby Newark were still a fresh fear for the all white town.  A handful of black families lived across the river in South Bound Brook and most people liked it that way.  The twin boroughs had separate schools until high school but Terry and I remained football friends until he was ineligible in 8th grade. 

 

 

 

The locker room encounter happens after our last practice before the first freshmen football game.  Coach Sam Gramicelli had Terry pegged as starting halfback like his big brother who’s now the runner on a varsity team which had gone 8-0-1 the previous season.  I’m relegated to kick returner and defensive cornerback.   

 

Neither Terry nor I like the tackling drills in which a runner tries to get by a defender between two blocking dummies.  Terry avoids being hit by lulling defenders into not trying with a jog and a dance, then racing by.  I do it by a flat out sprint past the slow tacklers or by steam-rolling into the faster ones before they can run into me. 

 

That day in practice a crow had circled overhead as I faced up against Terry.  He starts his jogging dance and I charge through it, hitting him hard with my helmet and knocking the ball loose.  Spearing (hitting with the helmet) is illegal but Sammy Gram had taught us to avoid the penalty by hitting face first instead of with the top of the helmet.  A tear slips from Terry’s eye as he falls back holding his belly.  Then he sits up laughing and drops to the back of the line.  After Terry’s locker room taunt I quickly dress and leave the field house for the walk home.

 

The next afternoon my feet freeze as the opening kickoff descends but a glimpse of tacklers charging down the field thaws them for a return to midfield.  Terry Johnson points at me and says “You’re done” as he joins the offense and I leave the field.  My grade school buddy Kenny Sella keeping statistics on the sideline says “Way to go Bates, that’s a thirty yarder.”  Two plays later Terry takes off around left end, cuts back across the field, and scampers in for a beautiful fifty yard touchdown run.  

 

PHOTO:  White

 

On the kickoff we nail the Bernardsville runner deep their territory.  Then they start moving the ball down the field on power sweeps in which a pulling guard and fullback lead the halfback around one end of the row of linemen.  It’s first down and ten yards to go for a first down at midfield when I read a sweep developing around right end.  I scoot around the big pulling guard and accidentally bump into their halfback.  Grabbing his jersey for dear life, we’re both driven back by a swarm of tacklers.  Our safety rams the pile helmet first, cracking me on the point of the left elbow. 

 

An electric shock shoots through my body as I stumble in circles and fall to the packed dirt.  Then memory fades until I come-to kicking and screaming because they’re strapping my right arm down for surgery.  The nurses wrestle me back to bed, reassuring that the right arm is for an IV but only the fractured left elbow will be operated on.

 

 

 

Both freshmen and varsity teams go on to undefeated seasons behind the running of the Johnson brothers.  I’m secretly relieved to be watching from the sideline but my big brother Alan assures me that I’ll play next year.  Those metal pins sticking out of my medial epicondyle whisper a comforting no.