The Football Hero

Jim Black

Description

In 1967, in the small, wind-swept town of Penny out in West Texas, Bobby Hargrove’s high school football career ended before it ever got off the ground. One year later, determined to try again, only one obstacle stands in his way—Head Coach Jack Stoner. Inspired by his best friend, Dilly, and a most unexpected admirer named Meg, Bobby anxiously awaits the chance to prove himself and guide the Pirates to victory. 

“Grab yourself a big ol’ glass of sweet tea and sit back for an afternoon of enjoyable readin’. This book has it all: Hard-nosed football, heartfelt romance and enough laughs to fill a No. 2 washtub. If I had my druthers though, it’d be called, The Football Hero and His Best Bud Dilly. But that’s just me.” —Dilly Binzwanger, Age 70

Sujets

• Sports
• Coming of Age
• Friendship
• Fiction
• Sport

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 26 avril 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977264350
• Langue: English

Extrait

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The Football Hero All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 Jim Black v2.0
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-6435-0
Cover Photo © 2023 www.gettyimages.com . All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
In Loving Memory of
Leo Matthew Brown
More than a brother-in-law, Leo was a father, uncle, brother and best friend to me.
I miss him dearly.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 1
M Y NAME IS Robert Dale Hargrove. People call me Bobby. I am sixteen-years-old, five feet seven inches tall, weigh one hundred and fifty pounds and am a sophomore at Penny High School in Penny, Texas. Penny is a nice town of about fifteen hundred people fifty-five miles northwest of Lubbock, halfway between Littlefield and Muleshoe on Hwy 84. There are four churches, three gas stations, three eating places, a grocery store, convenience store, hardware store, department store, pharmacy, bank, library, funeral home and one blinking red light. What else do you need? I’ve lived here with my mom my whole life. My dad left the day I was born. I guess he wasn’t big on commitment and responsibility. I couldn’t have a better mother though. Her name is Helen. Mom is a few inches shorter than me, with pretty gray hair she’s had since she was thirty. She’s a nurse at the little clinic here in town. As a result, most of the townspeople know her and everyone loves her. I work part-time mowing and watering fairways and greens at the local nine-hole golf course after school and occasionally on weekends. I’ve recently taken up golf and like it a lot but don’t have much time for it.
Football is my deal. I love the game. And I love playing quarterback. I don’t have a strong arm, but I am accurate and know how to throw before the receiver makes his cut so the ball will be there when he turns around. And how to spot man or zone coverage in a defense and anticipate a defender’s next move. The game comes natural to me. So much so that by my eighth grade year in junior high, Coach Seay was letting me call some of my own plays. We didn’t have a strong team but did manage to win more games than we lost. When it was done, I couldn’t wait to play high school football. Then, out of the blue, and most unexpectedly, my dream ended. Or, I should say, was taken away.
One Friday in May, near the end of the school year, my eighth grade teammates and I were summoned to the gymnasium where the varsity squad was going through plays. We would be joining them as freshmen in the fall. After changing into gym shorts and T-shirts, we filed into the gym. We all knew that Head Coach Jack Stoner was a hothead and prone to erupting at any moment. Rumor was he had never smiled. Not once in his life. He was taller than me, stocky, wore his hair buzzed and always had a cap on. And no amount of effort from his players was ever enough. I was standing against the wall with my buddies, watching the starters hustle through their plays when it happened.
Suddenly, Coach Stoner blew his whistle, glared my direction and said, "Hargrove, get in there for Perkins!" Cam Perkins, a junior, was the starting quarterback. He was a good five inches taller than me and twenty pounds heavier. All of it muscle. He stepped out of the huddle and I walked over. Thank goodness I’d been paying attention. Or at least I thought I had.
I stepped into the huddle, clearly the youngest and smallest of the group. The older players greeted me with looks of curiosity, impatience, and downright disdain. A few chuckled but not loud enough for Coach Stoner to hear. They knew the only person allowed to speak in the huddle was the quarterback. Even if he was a crummy eighth-grader. I called a play, 34-Dive and we broke the huddle. The team turned and sprinted to the line. A couple bumped me hard as I walked into position behind the center. Before I had a chance to do anything, I was grabbed by my shirt, spun around and dragged away. Coach Stoner’s face was beet red, veins bulging in his neck.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’?" he screamed.
I hadn’t a clue.
He then yanked me close, our faces just inches apart, and yelled, "NO PIRATE WALKS TO THE LINE OF SCRIMMAGE! GET YOUR SORRY ASS OVER THERE!" And with that, he shoved me hard against the wall. Then, "PERKINS, GET BACK IN THERE. MR. HARGROVE APPARENTLY HAS HIS OWN IDEAS ABOUT HOW TO PLAY QUARTERBACK." Then, glaring at me he said, "Your quarterbacking days are over, son."
I felt my eyes fill. "Coach," I said softly.
"I don’t wanna hear it. You’re done, I said." He then turned and never looked my way again. Humiliated and heartbroken, I quietly began to cry. My eighth grade teammates were sneaking glances at me. They were as dumbfounded and surprised as I was over what had just transpired.
Chapter 2
W HEN TWO-A-DAY WORKOUTS began just prior to school beginning in early fall, I was a no-show. My heart simply wasn’t in it. And I had not forgiven Coach Stoner. In an instant, he had taken away something very dear to me without ever giving me a chance. No football meant I had more time to spend with my best friend, Dilly.
Dilly Binzwanger and I had been pals since fourth grade when he moved to town. We shared a common thread we both lived in a one-parent home, though he lived with his father. I eventually learned his mother had died during his birth. His dad, Delbert, had moved them to Penny to be near his two sisters for support and help in raising his son. Dilly loved his aunts Rosie and Carla, and Delbert looked at them both as godsends. Dilly spent time in all three households growing up, but these days resided at home with his dad. Theirs was a little two-bedroom house several blocks from mine. Dilly maintained the yard and kept the inside clean while working part-time as a sacker at Ken’s Grocery. Delbert was employed by a farm equipment supply store in Littlefield as a mechanic, repairing tractors, plows, harvesters and such. He would occasionally stop by the It’ll Do Bar after work to enjoy a cold beer, but one beer only. Dilly would usually have supper ready when his dad got home. The two of them loved each other immensely and did the best they could.
Complications during Dilly’s birth had contributed to his health, he believed. Why else would he be smaller and frailer than others his age? He was often mistaken for being much younger than he really was. He stood five feet three inches, weighed one hundred twenty-five pounds, was never without his Buddy Holly style glasses with thick lenses and wore his black hair however it was when he woke up that morning. He also limped a remnant of an early childhood bout with polio. Surgery had helped but not resolved the problem.
Dilly didn’t really care about any of that though. "Hey, somebody’s gotta be small, wear thick glasses and be gimpy; might as well be me," he’d say. And always with a smile. How could you not be friends with a guy like that?
Oddly, most didn’t feel the way I did. Dilly really didn’t have other friends. Truth is, at times Dilly could be downright annoying. He was something of a prankster, often butted into conversations and sometimes wore the same clothes two or three days in a row. I had been popular in grade school and junior high, and many viewed my friendship with Dilly as odd. I didn’t pay attention to that. Dilly Binzwanger was loyal and caring and would have gone to war to defend me. And I would do the same for him.
Today we sat in our regular spot, in the back right corner booth at Bob’s Burger Barn, working on chocolate shakes. Mr. Walcott made a mean milkshake. The Burger Barn was a favorite place of ours. Inside, things were getting pretty old and worn and probably not much had changed since Mr. Walcott opened the place some twenty years ago. The red vinyl covering the booths and stools was cracked and foam was showing through in spots. And the counter and tabletops were faded and scratched, but we didn’t care. Mr. Walcott was a sweetheart of a guy and the food was great. The prices were good too. The other two places to eat in town were the Ranch House Restaurant at the edge of town and the Tasty Freeze. We preferred Bob’s. As we sat there and sipped our shakes, school was on our minds. It was beginning tomorrow.
Dilly frowned and said, "Man, I can’t believe you’re not goin’ out for football. Even if Stoner is a dipshit. That team needs you. Besides, you can’t end your football career on the Hankerton game. That’d suck."
The Hankerton game was my last junior high game played. It wasn’t for the championship (they’d already clinched the district), but we wanted desperately to beat them and end the season on a good note. And what a game