Chapter V

         Football coaches lump running backs in two categories. First, ya’ got them east-west runners. Pigskin experts with just one  ounce of gumption will tell you this type ain’t worth a continental damn. 

         The other kind gathers the  ole leather under his arms, holds on tightly so as not to  drop it, and hightails it downfield in a north-south direction.

         Vast are the differences between’em. An east-west runner takes a  pitchout and begins what is commonly referred to as a “sweep wide-right.” Lets hold confusion to a bare minimum by hastily adding he’s not carrying a broom.

         This type athlete will seldom cause the scoreboard to light up. He’ll git run outta’ bounds over yonder, more’n likely in the vicinity of the enemy bench. This proves how dumb east-west runners are. That’s hostile territory, where 10 raging coaches and 40 substitute players, fire in their eyes, await his  arrival. The dummy is in fer big, big trouble.

         Human-beings retain vivid memories of momentous events in their lives. It was October 17, 1944---a Friday afternoon, 4:42 P.M. Narz was in Wytheville for a contest. Wuzn’t any lightpoles at stadiums back then, games were played right after the bell ended another school week. A Narz dummy, one of them thar east-west runners, was forced outta’ bounds at the Maroons bench. The ensuing nightmare lives with him to this very day.

         He found himself at the bottom of a pileup that featured 10 irate coaches, 40 Wythe subs, 14 team-managers, 12 waterboys, 24 cheerleaders and a like number of boyfriends, 15 mascots of various sorts, the Mayor and Town Council of that enemy fortress, 30 ordinary fans, and half the vicious mongrels in Wythe County.

         Just off the playing field a farmer was allowing his Jersey milk cow to graze in lush green grass. Attracted by the  din and roar of that melee, Elsie broke free of her rope , charged over and jumped on him too.

         That Narz lad wuz pummeled and punched, scratched, bitten, kicked, spit on, cussed, had his hair pulled and eyes gouged, tickled under armpits, and suffered other indignities too numerous to mention  (it’s been years since I’ve seen a cow grazin’ on the sidelines ).

          Somehow he managed to get his head free of that writhing pile of humanity and animal life, and the sight greeting his eyes brought instant terror. Them dudes had a guillotine, it’s wicked blade musta’ weighed 200 pounds. Damn, they were gonna’ decapitate him---lop off his head! I’ve heard of  “winning at any and all costs,” but this bordered on the ridiculous!

         When facing perilous situations all men, women and children have at their disposal added reservoirs of strength known as the “superhuman” kind.

With the greatest of ease I got the heck outta’ there! Limping back to the huddle, I told the signal-caller in no uncertain terms: “If’n you call anything else goin’ back over that way, keep the ball yerself. Don’t hand it to me!”

         He barely heard me above the noise of sirens, 925 cussin’ people, the yappin’ of 40 rabid dogs, and the bawlin’ of a lone Jersey milk cow…

Chapter VI

         The week of the annual Giles- Narrows football rivalry rolled around once more, just as it had in 51 seasons prior to 1981. And a zany week it was.

         Predictably, folks in both towns were doin’ mucho jawin’---crowin’ about this, braggin’ about that.          

         Deafening noises emanated from pep-rallies, slogans were smeared on storefront windows, hundreds snake-danced thru the streets, whole truckloads of brush were burned on bonfires ( this sent billowing columns of smoke hundreds of feet into the night sky, contributing further to the depletion of the ozone layer. In the very near future be prepared for summertime strolling neath ye olde parasol, else suffer that unsightly and irritating malady called skin cancer. All because of  them there athletic-inspired bonfires ).

         The inanity knew no end. Stuffed dummies dressed in the opposing team’s colors were dragged 25 miles behind Jeeps. Needless to say the constant bouncing from a hard macadam pavement quickly rendered them unrecognizable, completely shredded and torn to tatters ( other dummies suffered an equally horrible fate by being hung in effigy from tree limbs, railroad trestles, bridges, skyhooks, darkened stormclouds and every available horizontal bar in the County ).

         Official town flags flew from cars, trucks, helicopters, ships at sea, telephone poles, peppermint poles, fishin’ poles, rooftops, front lawns, stickweeds and broomsage.

         Even Daniel got in on the action. Perhaps you’ve noticed that 30 ft. aerial attached to the rear of his wagon, a flimsy metal rod swishing back and forth in a whip-like motion. No governing body would even consider giving Daniel a town flag that week in 1981 (I thought that rather petty and two-bit in those governing circles. But then, those dudes have always been petty and little ). Nonetheless the innovative Daniel had banners fluttering proudly in the breeze atop that aerial--- two onion sacks and the battle streamers of the Second United States Infantry Division. Lord only knows how he came by thiose. Last time I saw ‘em they were in Korea (I’m referring to the battle streamers, not the onion sacks ).

         Tomfoolery was rife that weekend. Each school sent flower wreaths edged in black to the other as a symbol of grief. Opposing coaches received mail sacks full of sympathy cards offering heartfelt condolences.

         Now listen, this is a matter that needs delving into. Seems somethin’ mighty, mighty fishy is goin’ on here. Since 1930 it’s been rumored these “wreath and card capers” are masterminded by Narz and Parseburg football  coaches. Why hellsfire and tarnation! They’re mailing this junk to themselves, then saying tearfully to their respective squads, schools and communities: “I want you to look here what them dirty weasels sent me in the mail!”

         This is a grave charge indeed. Such deceitful actions would amount to flim-flammery, sham and con-game all rolled into one. Certainly it points to a total disregard for chivalry, harks of un- sportsmanlike conduct. I don’t know if these accusations are valid, or more grist from gossiping rumor-mongerers.

         Heres a sneaky tactic ya’ can always count on. It’s two days before game day and from the enemy camp comes this: “Our star halfback suffered a broken back and 7 compound fractures in both legs at practice today. Medical examination also reveals he received a  serious concussion and 9 broken ribs. The patient has been transferred by helicopter to a specialized hospital in Roanoke where, at this hour, he lies in traction and a comatose stare. The lad was knocked cuckoo, doesn’t even know where he’s at. Doctors advise he can suit up Friday night, but his playing time, if any, will be limited.” End of comminique.

         Take it with a grain of salt. I’ve watched too many of these “invalid” halfbacks take the opening kickoff and ramble 90 yards for six!

         Richard knows about a lotta’ this stuff. Let me  tell ya’ how much he knows…

Chapter VII

         Activity wasn’t confined solely to a football game that week in 1981. A whole lotta’ stuff was happening. From a source that must remain anonymous I’d learned local law-enforcement  agencies had scheduled large-scale aerial searches for an obnoxious weed called marijuana ( beats me why they call it a weed. On reaching maturity the darn stuff more closely resembles tall timber trees ).                          

Involved were the Giles County Sheriffs Dept. and Virginia State Police , with the Virginia Air National Guard supplying the aircraft. These consisted of two wings ( about 30 planes ) of screaming Piper Cubs, plus three full squadrons of “death dealing” Cobra gunships, all painted a  dull olive drab.

         A contingency plan existed in the event large acreages of dope were found in remote mountainous areas. As you well know, it’s very difficult to get back into that type terrain. Should the need arise, B-52’s were standing by on “red alert” at Bergstrom Air Force base , ready to be summoned in on a moment’s notice for high-altitude bombing runs ( if’n you can’t pull dope out by it’s roots, bomb the livin’ hell of it  ).

I was more than a little frustrated. Every citizen in the 17,000 population of Giles County was, in some  shape or fashion, a  participant in a three-ring circus---except me.

I certainly wasn’t eligible to suit up for Friday night’s game, wasn’t a policeman who might search for dope, wuz “skeered” to death of flying, and had never planted or cultivated marijuana.

What was left? How could I be a part of this Southwest Virginia Mardi Gras? A flood of ideas rapidly came, but were as quickly rejected.

Guess I could sell roasted peanuts in the bleachers. Or maybe work with the maintenance crews in keeping those flying-machines airborne ( silly thinking. I knew absolutely nothing about propellers or rotor-blades ).

Cheerleading was completely out of question, never given serious consideration. Damned if I’d stand before a mob of 8,000 to strut, gyrate, and wave a pair of pom-poms over my head. I’ve never understood how those male collegians, too sissy to play football, can take up them amplified bullhorns and act stupid before an audience numbering 75,000.

Let’s see now. Time fer taking stock of the ingredients in our pantry. A local football rivalry to be settled on the playing field Friday night, a sky filled with military aircraft lookin’ fer dope---and Richard Fleeman.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my thick skull an idea was forming. A workable plan, and it would allow Richard and I to become a part of the hoopla…

Chapter VIII

Football has two classifications---winners, and losers. The obnoxious “hotdogs”, and the wimpy meek.

Winners parade about telling the world and anyone else who will listen : “We’re champions of this here universe. Nobody can beat us!”

In the  meanwhile, losers are giving out with this: “We’re building character and leadership.” Tune in to any athletic contest, and then decide if any program, winner or loser, have built either. I’’ ll have to think about this one for awhile.

Everybody playing today have, at one time or another, known both

This includes the Alabama’s, Michigan’s, Miami’s Slippery Rock University, Shawsville, Newcastle, Parseburg and Narz. No one is an exception to the rule, and an old idiom says it best: you’ll lose a few, win a few, but always remember--- the sun don’t shine on the  same mangy mutt every day.

         All nations, tribes cults, gangs, and sects will follow a winner. So then, where does this leave the loser? Well sir, how about this: “Why that bunch of bums couldn’t play mummblypeg. They’re born losers and I won’t pay a dime to see ‘em.”

         Well now, hold on a minute. That last statement ain’t exactly true. Consider this fact:

         A few years back the New Orleans Saints dropped 31 consecutive football games. Wanna’ know what happened?

         Every Sunday during their losing streak them Bayou fans would cook up a whole raft of Creole food, swallow it down in a hurry, then join a dangerous stampede toward the Superdome. They were the oddest lookin’ mob ever seen anywhere.

         Just before kickoff all of ‘em stopped in at their favorite supermarket, selected a nice shopping bag, cut two “eyeholes” in it, then printed this message on the durn thing: WE ARE THE AINT”S---AIN”T NEVER WON…AIN”T NEVER GOIN” TO.

         Finally they joined their friends and neighbors inside the stadium. Just imagine 85,000 screamin’ imbeciles---85,000 paper pokes!

         The longer the losing streak lasted, the more steadfast the Cajun loyalty to the Saints. But then one bleak Sunday afternoon somethin’ awful happened way down south in New Orleans. Them there Saints “lucked out” and won a contest! A day of infamy it wuz, and set in motion a startling chain of events.

         The citizens of New Orleans threatened to disavow their Saints, vowed to have their franchise to another city. Every last one of those morons wanted the NFL to declare a forfeit in that winning game! After all, they declared, WE ARE THE AINT”S!

         Management called a hurried conference, then dialed Commissioner Pete Rozelle’s office to inform him of the situation: “Hey Pete, we’ve got a crisis on our hands down here. The entire city is in turmoil. Our City Council and Mayor have just finished studying the game film. Clearly we had 8 men offsides on the winning play, two of our boys were guilty of clipping infractions, plus we had 4 ineligible receivers down-field. Mister Commissioner, the film indicates we had 33 players on the field. We demand this game be forfeited to our opponent!”

         Ya’ can’t be content with being a “small-time loser.” That’s no good! The really successful loser will drop 50, maybe 60 contests in a row. This ensures media-coverage and national attention like winning never can…

Chapter IX

         As previously noted, winners have the world at their feet.The entire globe is theirs, and loud boasters everywhere are famous for their eloquence: “Man, we got this here doggone globe by it’s tail.”

         And the flip side of the coin? Well, excluding the New Orleans Saints, humiliated losers have absolutely nothin’ goin’ for them.

         But once again, hold your horses, not so fast! Losers do have endless “seas of despair” to wallow in, watery bodies well suited for absorbing misery and “crying the blues.”

One should not lose heart, for even in the darkest moments of defeat there is solace. A faint glimmer of hope and salvation is offered, usually by a foxy coach well versed in connivance and manipulative tactics: “It’s alright son, even in defeat you played one whale of a game. You looked absolutely magnificent. Just wait til next year, we’ll tear them bums apart limb by limb. From this moment forward you should begin dedicating yourself toward that goal.” End of Knute Rockne speech. Rah, rah, rah---blah, blah, blah.                           Winners have huge followings of  “loyal supporters,” while fans who watch losers are numbered in the dozens. A little illustration of how it works. Lets say a team has it’s 25 game winning streak suddenly snapped---I mean a big underdog gets riled and whales the livin’ tar out of ‘em. Lets further suppose the same thing happens next Friday night  ( after the second shellacking our heroes will have their feet rooted back in earth, and caps can be adjusted several notches downward. Heads have shrunk from watermelon to lemon-size. Egos have been deflated flatter than a pancake ).

         If the former winners should drop that third consecutive contest ya’ can look around at lotsa’ vacant bleachers and ask: “Where in tarnation is all them there loyal supporters?”

         Answer---they’ve gone the way of an army of rats deserting a sinking ship. That’s where those former die-hard erstwhile  “champs of this here universe” have gone. Shucks good buddy, we’re all “fair-weather fans.”

         Folks say this ain’t a nice thing to do. You’ve heard their line: “We gotta’ stick with ‘em thru thick or thin---win, lose or draw. This comes mostly from parents of current players, Mom and Dad who, until their own Junior decided to become the world’s greatest athlete, had never before entered a football stadium. And when Jr. picks up his diploma and departs the scene, Mom and Dad will do likewise. Course now, even if they’re 0-40 during his career we’re supposed to stand behind ‘em---cause Junior is playing!

         But then I believe it’s perfectly normal human behavior for folks to sorta’ drift away when a team is down on it’s luck. Good coachin’ and outstanding athletes don’t necessarily a winner make. Ninety percent of winnin’ is luck, pure and simple. That ole ball has gotta’ be bouncin’ just right.

         The Narz team of 1981 was a winner, thus had a “sea of green” standing behind them. Huge throngs, including Richard, showed up even for practice sessions.

         And, just a couple of days before the big Narz-Parseburg game, so too did a pair of airplanes suddenly appear over the Narrows practice field…

Chapter X

         I was somewhat acquainted with one policeman who would be aboard that helicopter searching for marijuana, and on Sunday of “big game week” I approached him with a direct request: “Could you talk that pilot into buzzing the Narz practice field?”

         “Whatsa’ matter?” he inquired. “Haven’t any of them Narz boys ever seen an airplane?”

“Only 3 of the boys have seen real ones,” I told him. “It’s my understanding though that most of ‘em have watched “Bombers B-52.”                                   

         Then I told him a lotta’ other stuff, but didn’t mention a word about my plan being designed to specifically for getting Richard involved ( pumped up, so to speak ) in the big game coming up Friday night.

         Folks, I was less than honest, maybe a tad evasive with that policeman by not revealing my true motive for requesting a sortie over that place where gruntin,’ groanin,’ and gripin’ are heard. To this very day the cop thinks he was a passenger aboard the first helicopter ever seen by a Narz football team!                                                                                                                     For a long while I lived in mortal fear I’d be found out and charged with passing false information to the authorities, but that scare has largely subsided now  (I’m protected by somethin’ called the “statute of limitations,” a legal procedure which simply means this---if you can be slippery like an eel long enough, ya’ can do anything and get away with it ).

                                                                                                                     “Yeah, I can have our pilot give ‘em a buzz,” the lawman responded. “We’ll be working the Wolf Creek area Wednesday. How does that timetable sound?”

         “Just fine,” I answered. But his statement had the effect of a sledge-hammer blow to my forehead. “Good Lord above man. You’re not telling me y’all suspect someone on Wolf Creek is growin’ marijuana. I know a lotta’ those good people up there, and just can’t believe any of ‘em would do such a thing!”

         The cop went on to explain how, in their never-ending war on drugs, the entire County would be “blanketed.” No area was exempt, every mountain, valley, nook and cranny would come under their careful scrutiny.

         I retired early that night, but the Sandman would not come. All thru the darkened hours I tossed and turned, gazing upward to an invisible ceiling. My curiosity had been diverted from a football game---sports seemed a trivial matter now. Dawn found me still laying wide-eyed and wondering---“just who in hell might be irrigating a patch of marijuana on Wolf Creek?”

Chapter XI

         “Well---another day, another dollar,” the whirly-bird pilot remarked to his police passengers. “Let’s head for the barn…uh, I mean landing pad.” He’d just radioed his intentions to the Piper Cub circling lazily a mile west of his own position.

         Searching for marijuana from the air can be an extremely hazardous and nerve-wracking occupation. There’s always the possibility that a “dope farmer,” fearful of getting caught, might resort to an act of desperation. For instance, opening up with shotgun blasts and volleys of rifle fire.

         An even worse thought---Exocet and Stinger missiles---lurk constantly in the minds of official searchers aboard those relatively slow-moving aircraft. Drug kingpins might even have access to the Chinese and their dreaded Silkworm missile! Damn ole Miss Mitchell!  (believe I’d want somethin’ supersonic while flying over marijuana infested areas during the harvest season. Such a method would have it’s advantages and disadvantages. You’d miss a few patches, but yer chances fer survival would be greatly enhanced).

          “Okay pilot, but don’t forget. You promised to swoop in low  

 over the Narrows practice field.” That reminder was uttered by the      lawman who’d informed me of this massive air-operation.

We’ll look ‘em over,” said the flyboy, just recently finished his active military duty and who now had visions of flying 747’s for Pan-Am (a good paying job with unlimited opportunities for seeing the world. Ya’ just keep yer fingers crossed and hope a terrorist group doesn’t hijack your butt and say: “We’d like to visit our cousin Colonel Khadafy in Libya. You’ll take us there, else everyone on this plane becomes one big glob of hamburger.” ).

         And so two aircraft, flying low over the sparkling waters of Wolf Creek, began an eastward flight that would take the helicopter to it’s secret landing-zone in the opposite end of Giles County, the Piper Cub to touch down a bit later at the teeming metropolitan aerodrome called New River Valley Airport in Dublin.

         Several dozen loyal supporters ringed the practice field in Narrows that Wednesday afternoon , Richard and I among them. The big game Friday night was being discussed, and I listened to some of the daffiest remarks I’ve heard in nearly 6 decades on this earth. According to the drift of those sideline conversations, the Super Bowl was mere sandlot compared with this local extravagansa.

         I turned to the lad from Wayside Mountain and said: “Richard, I’m hearing rumors the Giles coaching staff has chartered two airplanes and are planning to fly down here and spy on us.”

         “Old man Sworps had a airplane made outta’ moon cheese but it wouldn’t fly so he took a meat cleaver and chopped it up and throwed the rest out to a flock of pigeons and they got sick and started doin’ flip flops cause it was too cold to go swimmin’or drink lemonade and that caused his mules to get mad and kick 10 planks off the barn.” Richard was in tip-top form.

         The distinctive “egg beater” sound of a helicopter became audible in the distance---growing louder, drawing ever closer.

         “Richard, cast your eyes westward toward yon setting sun. Me thinks two aircraft are rapidly approaching our position”…

Chapter XII

          Those two specks in the western sky arrived quickly over the Narrows practice field in the more recognizable form of aircraft. Their extremely low altitude, not more than 100 feet, caused all ground activity to grind to a sudden halt. Contact with blocking-sleds stopped, receivers quit running pass patterns, the legs of kickers got a much-needed rest,         rifle-armed quarterbacks ceased “fillin’ the air with footballs”, oooohhs and aaaahhs replaced signal-callin’ and groans. Forty-five pieces of headgear were shed for the purpose of getting a better look-see.

         Even the coaching staff stood with jaws agape ( I would’ve wagered Bill Patteson and Bubba Fraley had seen helicopters before, but their exhilaration belied that assumption ).

         “Heavens to Betsy, Richard. It’s true. Parseburg has mounted a covert operation against us!”

         “Why you ugly sassafras, whatta’ you mean?”, Richard ranted as he displayed more than a little concern. And then added a few further observations: “Ole man Zoopoobooly had a one-eyed hound and two gray mules that wouldn’t eat bones and hay so they drinked orange juice and two brown-mule popsicles and jumped over a fence and put dynamite under a herd of cows fer givin’ buttermilk and then stepped in three tubs of soapy water after they poured in 7 gallons of vinegar and the roosters wuz all naked cause their feathers floated away ( I recently taped one of Richard’s harangues and sent it by mail to United Nations headquarters in New York City. That famed organizations has 3,000 of the world’s foremost linguists on it’s payroll, fluent in every tongue and dialect spoken on planet Earth. Their report came back as expected; not one cottonpickin’ of ‘em had the foggiest notion what Richard was talkin’ about ).

         “What do I mean? Richard, you’d better wake up. That was old Steve Ragsdale at the controls of that flyin’ piece of junk. I didn’t even know he had an aviator’s license. And that blond fella’ standin’ in the door with a television camera pointed down here. Do you have any idea who that was?”

         Richard shot back without hesitation: “Looked like  Old Man Sworps.”

         “Wrong. Sure as shootin’ it was Don Lowe, the Giles assistant coach and the man you have breakfast with every morning down yonder at J.B. Buckland’s place in Rich Creek. You’re spillin’ the beans, giving away our secrets  and tellin’ him about every new gimmick in our playbook. Hell, they’ll know what we’re gonna’ do even before  we break the huddle.”

         “That ain’t fair. Lets call the law and report that bunch of  sneaky weasels.” Richard was livid, and swore to cook Don Lowe’s  goose tomorrow morning at Burger Boys, and for added good measure would “fry his eggs” too.

         ‘Call the law my foot! I’m contacting my Congressman and request a full-scale Congressional investigation. Good Lord, them airplanes are loaded with cops. They’re a part of this plot! Tell ya’ what Richard, lets string along and play a few games ourselves. Several options are available to us.”

         Richard seemed pleased aas I continued: “Yessir me lad, we have some really good options..."

Chapter XIII

         Following their initial run over the  Narrows practice field  the two aircraft banked steeply to the right and began a maneuver which made their intentions clear.

         “Good gracious alive! They’re circling and coming back for another pass!,” I said to Richard. “We don’t stand a Chinaman’s chance Friday night if they know all our secret plays.”

         This sent Richard into a dejected mood which I found quite alarming: “The end of the world is comin!”

         “Don’t think so, at least not today. Your pal Don Lowe didn’t get enough on film the first time. Let’s get in a prone position so he won’t get more valuable footage to use against us.” Richard and I hit the dirt and the Narz team did likewise. Their second sortie paid no dividend to the spies from Parseburg.

         “Wait til tomorrow down at J.B.’s. I’m gonna’ stomp on his feet and bounce a skillet off his head and then wrap him in a barbed-wire fence and roll it out between some locust posts for a fence so the mules can’t go swimmin’ cause put near every time they step on a settin’ hen that’s waitin’ for a firetruck to come by so she can cackle.” And then Richard , in a voice most pitiful, added this: “Ain’t there somethin’ we can do?”

         “Certainly, I can contact Rick Boucher. This matter will be aired before a joint-session of our legislative bodies.”

         The lad from Wayside Mountain interrupted with a prediction: “It’ll be somethin’ wrong with Don Lowe’s head when I git hold of him. I’ll fry his porkchops and eggs too.”

         “One last thing Richard. We can check with the FAA and see if Steve Ragsdale has a valid aviator’s license. I’ll tell ‘em he zoomed in here at an altitude of 20 feet. I know damned well it’s against the law to fly that low. We can cement our argument by saying at least 15 Narz boys suffered eye injuries caused by “helicopter dust,” thereby denying them a rosy future in the NFL.”

         Reckon it’ll work?” Richard was genuinely concerned, worried somethin’ awful.

         “Well, if that stuff don’t work there’s one last plan to consider. We can head for the nearest airport tomorrow, charter ourselves a plane and go spy on Parseburg. But listen, rentin’ flying machines is expensive. I have one dollar and four cents. How much cash in your wallet, Richard?”

         “You’re crazier than a cross-eyed goose floatin in a tub of castor oil with a truck tire tied around it’s neck and I’m goin’ home and drink 3 bottles of Hadacol and 4 glasses of Pearooney.”

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

August, 1984