Friday, March 30, 2007

The Letterman’s Club

Our class seemed to thrive on clubs. Everybody joined something, depending on their interests. Future Farmers of America, Future Homemakers of America, library club, science club, and others. If we didn’t have a club for a particular venue, we organized one.

I was named to the National Honor Society as a junior. Being tapped at a general assembly to that prestigious group was quite a thrill but all the other clubs were simply those you joined voluntarily (except the letterman’s club in athletics). I belonged to Quill and Scroll for journalism, Thespian club for actors, and the science club.

I lettered in four sports. That sounds like I was a real jock but the fact is, the level of athletics at Ida Grove was such that almost anybody who went out could earn a letter.

I have related my basketball career and even though I played only part of my junior year and sat on the bench a good deal of my senior year, I still got a letter.

Football was certainly not my sport, although I did play and actually started some games. At 120 pounds, there weren’t too many spots for me, but as I indicated, we did not have a plethora of players so I was delegated to play end -- both offensive and defensive -- since the platoon system was not known at that time.

My only claim to fame in football also happened to be the only game we won our senior season. I think the game was at Sac City and it really doesn’t matter except that it was on the road. We were trailing 12-6 and our quarterback, Pete Besore -- the one I told you about before -- called a pass play. The other end and I were supposed to go down field, cross in the middle and Pete was supposed to throw to the other guy after we had passed each other. He threw it a little soon and I took the pass instead and streaked down the sidelines to a touchdown.

So there we were, late in the ball game, tied 12-12 with the extra point coming up. Coach Tate had been emphatic all year that our kicking game stunk and that all extra points would be running plays.

Pete had tried to get Coach Tate to let him kick extra points all year, but he wouldn’t do it. This was the last game of the season, Pete was senior, and -- what the Hell. He called a kick, waited for the holder to put the ball down and promptly made the extra point -- left footed! I halfway expected him to turn to the coach and thumb his nose, considering he had not only defied instructions on kicking but also the fact he was right handed.

On the bus ride home, I figured the coach would blow up and give Pete the dickens. Instead, he was quite genial and I was the one that got the ribbing.

“McCormick,” he said, “don’t get a big head over that touchdown. The only reason you out-ran the defense was because you were so damn scared of being tackled.”

The other two letters came in track and baseball. We were a small school so most students had to participate in more than one sport. It was quite ridiculous, but we practiced track and baseball on the same nights -- an hour or so for one and the same for the other. As a consequence, we were not much good in either. I played a mean outfield and hit all of 0.125. I had no stamina for the long races in track and was not fast enough for the sprints so I ended up mostly on relay teams.

I did win a few ribbons, but mostly seconds and thirds. At the annual class track meet, the seniors didn’t have a quarter miler so the coach put me in that race. Today, the athletes run it like a sprint. In those days -- unknown to me -- athletes were supposed to pace themselves to leave some for the final spurt. I ran it full speed the entire way and won the race, so coach declared I should enter that event at the up-coming district track meet.

As it happened, the 440 came immediately following a relay race in which I participated and, my stamina, being what it was, I didn’t finish. I tried to run it like I had in our class meet but I simply ran out of gas.

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