The coach yells “Run like they’re chuckin spears” as I take the field as a junior halfback with the Bound Brook High School offense.  It must show that I’m clueless because my old buddy Kenny Sella who’s keeping statistics on the sideline whispers “Yo Bates, just get away from those black dudes.” 

 

 

 

It’s the last game of the season against our traditional rival, the Somerville Pioneers in their black and orange uniforms.  The predominantly African-American team is the current Somerset County champion and heavily favored to win the Thanksgiving morning game.  The Bound Brook Crusaders are an all white team but only because we had lost Terry Johnson and Wayne Hooper during freshmen year when one of the black seniors was suspended from school for accusing a wrestling coach of favoring white grapplers.  The next morning all the black students, Terry among them, boycotted school by standing out on the front lawn as classes started.  His big brother Sam arrived with the suspended wrestler and they convinced everyone to go back into school.  Terry burst into study hall and strode down the aisle with eyes darting back and forth.  We all watched as he hopped over a row of seats to stand over a guy who was dealing pot in the boys’ room between classes.  As the guy stood up Terry clocked him in the mouth with a quick right jab.  In what seemed like slow motion the guy fell back over the seat with blood dribbling from his lip.  Terry turned to leave and bumped into the pretty and popular German teacher attending study hall that morning.  He responded to her bewildered “Terry, what’s going on?” with a big grin and a quick two-handed squeeze of her breasts before Wayne hustled him out of the auditorium.  That was the last we saw of both Terry and Wayne.

             

           

 

Two years later the Thanksgiving game starts ominously for Bound Brook as Terry’s cousin Lester returns the opening kickoff in snow flurries all the way for a Somerville touchdown.  Then the defenses take over, shutting down running plays on the icy field.  On one of ours I try stiff-arming their linebacker to break around end into the open field.  It’s hard to read his dark face as he leans toward me at full tilt so I ram a straightened left arm into his facemask to push off.  He reaches through and wraps up my legs, giving my foot a sharp twist before rolling away. 

 

Late in the second quarter the sun emerges and the Pioneers start moving the ball downfield on short passes.  It feels like they’re ready to steamroll us until Richie Jeskulski breaks through from defensive end and tips the ball as its being thrown.  Our big linebacker Bob Dugan picks it off and I take the field with our offense to the coach’s spear chucker admonition and Kenny Sella’s translation. 

 

Our first play is a power sweep to the right.  I field the pitch from our quarterback and take off behind the pulling guard Stanley Brownell who cuts down their defensive end.  Turning the corner, I see the field open up all the way to the endzone and leap forward as Lester Johnson sprints across the field to catch me.  Kenny Sella calls from the sideline “He’s at the fifty yard line, the forty, thirty, twenty…”  My sister Karla, a senior now, is standing on tiptoes on the rail along the top of the bleachers.  My brother Alan is running down the track alongside the field on the Bound Brook side.  Terry Johnson is standing near the goal line on the Somerville side with his hands jammed into his overcoat pockets and a smile in his eyes.  A crow caws from up on the goalpost.  I see and hear none of these things but only feel Lester closing in.  He dives at the five yard line and grabs my left foot.  My spike slips off into his hands as we tumble forward and land in a twisting heap.

 

PHOTO: Black