Eau de Loquer–Rhum

Perusing an old Rivers High School annual, I came across some pictures of myself on the football team. I hadn't even attended Rivers, but this was 1957, when Charleston High, Rivers High, and Murray Vocational High had to combine their collective gridiron resources to come up with enough people for a team. I don't even possess a Charleston High School annual anymore, having lost them all moving from one place to another.

Seeing those pictures brought back a lot of memories, the first of which was the aroma of the locker room, an incredibly pungent smell of post-pubescent sweat, unwashed week-old jock straps and socks so stiffened they had permanent folds and creases that caused pressure sores—a smell so powerful that if they could collect it, they could use it against the Iraqis, or at least as a cheap substitute for smelling salts or paint remover. On the other hand, maybe the EPA should get involved; this may be a major contributor to acid rain or the ozone layer holes.

As Dana Carvey's "grouchy old man" would say, "Sure, it stunk like Hell, but we liked it!" It was my only year of varsity football, as I finally succumbed to a nagging algebra injury in my senior year. We were an all white team, this being the pre-integration era. We were also very light, our offensive and defensive lines averaging probably 150 pounds, but we were deceptively slow. If through some kind of time warp we could be allowed to play today's high school, we would be soundly thrashed—unless we could use our superior slowness to our advantage, sort of like a change-up pitch in baseball. Opposing players, expecting our runners to be at least average speed, would be trying to tackle them two or three yards ahead of where they were. Maybe we could at least win one game before the rest of the tams made the right adjustments and our losing streak began to approach infinity.

I will, however, pray there is not a time warp. We had a hard enough time winning against the competition 33 years ago.

I weighed about 160 pounds at the time and played guard on offense and linebacker on defense. I had never played organized sports prior to high school, and I can recall my first practice as a somewhat frightening experience, although, of course, I could never display my feelings. I, as most everyone else, wanted to play a prominent position. I wanted to carry the ball, make a touchdown, so my girlfriend and the entire student body could echo my name throughout the stadium: "Goooooo Coskrey!"

However, the coach, after carefully noting my natural ability to run, carry or catch the ball, decided I had what it took to be a lineman, that same aptitude that annoyed my mother during my kindergarten years—an innate proclivity for grabbing hold of someone's leg(s) and never letting go. How many times during a game would a referee have to blow his whistle and scream, "Number 31, let go of his damn leg!" Or an opposing player say to his recently tackled teammate, "I think that strange kid at linebacker was calling you 'Mommy.'"

Our team was a bizarre amalgam of varying backgrounds and social strata, being composed of guys from aristocratic, below Broad families; middle-class families (Charleston High School); a lot of Jewish kids from Rivers; and those mostly from working families (Murray). During the other sports seasons, we all became rivals again and played for our individual schools. In this, my junior year, we intermixed an element that was alien to all of us—two kids from what we called a "reform school" in Florence. In a modern argot, you might say there was a great deal of "hype" surrounding this event. These guys were rough. They were very mean. They could even beat up the guys from Murray. They were athletic psychopaths who sublimated their violent behavior into the socially acceptable game of football. And they were going to kick some butt at practice.

The big one, Brandon, weighed about 185 pounds, we were told, was an All-State candidate, and, much to my concern, played my position, guard and linebacker. The average-sized one, Ollie, played halfback.

The first anxiety-packed day of practice, there they were in the locker room. I wondered if their specialized admixture of sweat and body odor would have an exacerbating effect on the already semi-noxious locker room environment. Would a cumulus cloud form at locker-top level and occasionally pelt us with acrid rain? Might there even be lightning bolts with a residual smell of rancid socks instead of the usual ozone?

Fortunately, none of this occurred, but I had a more pressing reality to deal with—Brandon Anderson, who was now undressing to get into his practice togs. In 1957, there were no weight training programs for high school athletes. Apparently, however, Brandon had found a way to get around this. Either they had a weight program at the reform school, or, I thought, maybe he got that way breaking rocks, because had the build of a 30-year-old construction worker. In observing him—in a very manly, heterosexual way, of course—I was surprised to find that there were a distressing number of places on my body where muscles were supposed to be, but weren't.

Happily for me, I never had to butt heads with Brandon because we both played on the same side of the line—except once during a painful practice ritual where a lineman tries to fight off a blocker and tackle the runner. I was the tackler and Brandon was the blocker in this case. We stood about ten yard apart with the runner directly behind Brandon. Brandon made his usual snarling noises and yelled, "Meat! Meat!" Brandon normally saved his best for the game and took mercy on his less developed teammates. "I've got nothing to worry about," I thought. "This is all show."

At the coach's signal, Brandon and the supremely secure runner came straight at me. Brandon was still screaming, "Arrggghhhh!" His eyes were glaring and feral. I was prepared for the worst. If I were doing to die, why couldn't it be in a game, where I might at least achieve fame or martyrdom? Too late now, I thought, as I braced in preparation for the collision, hoping that Brandon might somehow stumble, and I would not only be able to live but also make a clean tackle. Brandon threw a steel-hard, crunching body block into one of my numerous soft spots, my defenseless lower abdomen. I felt pain enter and wind leave my body. I also felt a stinging sensation and a spreading warmth in my bladder area. Yes, he had knocked the you-know-what out of me. But, miraculously, I was able to grasp the runner in my famous "Mommy-Leg" tackle as he tried to run over my crumpled form. I was in my "Mommy-Leg" trance now with my arms locked desperately about his legs. He tripped trying to extricate himself and fell. Brandon extended his Arm & Hammer trademark arm to help me up: "Nice tackle, Bob, but it sounded like you said something like, 'Mommy, Mommy, never leave me.'"

I quickly responded in a strained, breathless voice. "Must have been Carl (the runner). He's kind of a mama's boy, if you get my drift, Brandy."

"Oh yeah, I get ya, Bob. Hey, please don't call me Brandy, okay? That's for girls and dogs."

Me, apologetically: "Sorry, Brandon, no offense."

Brandon: "No problem, Bob. By the way, the front of your pants are wet. Did you wet your pants?"

Me, with my voice now almost normal and in my most masculine tone: "Oh yeah, I know. It's no big deal. It's just that I love bein' out here hittin' so much. I don't want to take the time to go to the bathroom. Know what I mean?"

Brandon, looking at me a little curiously: "Uh, yeah, right, Bob. We better get back in line."

I think I gained some measure of respect from Brandon that day, and I would occasionally catch him pointing at me, smiling, and talking to Ollie, when he thought I wasn't looing. Yeah, I think that tackle really impressed him, because he hardly ever hit me hard any more, and never again below the waist.

We went on to a 5-5 record that year, quite an accomplishment for us.

Brandon went on to become All-State. Ollie didn't, but they both became important personages at Charleston High. Today, Ollie is a legitimately successful businessman. Brandon became a city policeman, then a car salesman. I've lost track of him since then. I last used the "Mommy-Leg" tackle in 1982 to catch my runaway collie.

I occasionally have locker room flashbacks in Texaco station restrooms.