Through a Pigskin Prism

E. Blake Moore

Description

He never should have made it in the NFL... Growing up, Blake Moore never really dreamed of playing professional football. Sure, he watched the NFL stars on TV on Sundays, and pretended to be one of them in pickup games with his friends. And of course he had a Minnesota Vikings Purple People Eaters poster in his room—didn’t everyone? Blake thought of himself as just an ordinary kid with no special athletic skills or size or speed. But to play in the NFL one day? Monday Night Football? The Super Bowl? In front of tens of thousands of fans and a TV audience of millions?
Through a Pigskin Prism is the story of how a professional football career became a reality—however unplanned or unexpected. This memoir gives the reader an inside look at one player’s unusual path to the NFL, and his experiences playing in the NFL for six seasons—a life viewed through the unique prism of football. Blake Moore is living proof that dreams do come true sometimes—even if you aren't sure it ever was your dream!

Sujets

• Sport
• Autour du sport
• Histoire du sport
• Sports
• Lettres et linguistique
• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 15 septembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781478745259
• Langue: English

Extrait

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.

Through a Pigskin Prism
An Unlikely Journey to and through the NFL
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2014 E. Blake Moore Jr.
v3.0

Cover Photo © 2014 AP Photo/Vernon J. Biever. All rights reserved--used with pernission.

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.
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ISBN: 9781478745259

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014911990

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To my wife, Cynthia Weiler, whose love, understanding, and patience have sustained me through much of my life journey.

To my children, Lauren and Hudson, who have brought immeasurable joy to my life.
Contents
Introduction
Preface
Chapter 1: Just a Kid
Chapter 2: Junior High School (1970–1973)
Chapter 3: High School (1973–1976)
Chapter 4: The College of Wooster (1976-1980)
Chapter 5: The Cincinnati Bengals (1980–1984)
Chapter 6: The Green Bay Packers (1984–1986)
Epilogue
Introduction
I think an introduction to any book should address two basic questions: First, what is the book about? Second, why did the author choose to write it?
The first question seems easy to answer—this is a book about my “football career,” the story of my years as a football player, my football memoirs. But the more I wrote, the more I realized how apt the title of the book is. For my football story is really a very small part of my overall life, yet it also permeates so many other parts of my life that it is hard to separate football from “other.” In fact, as I wrote the book, I realized that even in telling the football story, I was only telling a small part of my life—because there are just so many memories, so many emotions, so many connections to things “outside” football. So I had to make choices about what I wrote, which stories to include, which to omit. Some of the names have been changed where I thought appropriate. And I am not under any illusion that I have every story perfectly accurate, or that others who were part of my life would remember it as I have remembered it. Such is history and human observation. I have taken time to try to get the “facts” right, like games, scores, dates, etc. But the stories—those are mine, and I relate them as I remember them.
The second question—why write the book—is perhaps more complicated. Over the years, as I have told bits and pieces of my football story to one or two people, or to groups or audiences, I have often heard the remark—“You have a fascinating story—You should write a book!” I brushed the remark off for many years, but kept hearing it as I related my story to different people. The interest seemed persistent and genuine. I guess we’ll see how many people were serious after I publish . . .
I am also writing this book for my children, Lauren and Hudson. They were far too young while I was playing to really understand what I was doing, or what it meant. I was just their dad. As they’ve grown older, I think they have a better sense of what their dad did, but never really understood the whole story, start to finish. So part of the “why” is for them.
Finally, and probably more urgently of late, is mortality. I have written most of this book, the guts of it, during 2011–2013, at age 55 or so. In that brief period of time, the issue of head trauma in the NFL, the consequences of all those blows to the head over a long high school, college, and NFL career, have become a national health debate and controversy. My NFL peers are dying, experiencing early onset dementia and committing suicide. None of those topics were ever discussed even 10 years ago by me or other former players. Our health concerns were always physical—weight, joints, pain. None of us ever imagined there was a silent mental killer out there waiting for us too. Now we know. And I want to tell my story, the way I remember it, before I forget.
Preface
I’m crouched over the football, left fingers on the Astroturf, right hand grasping the ball, prepared to snap it through my legs to the waiting quarterback. Sweat is running down my face, off my head, under my helmet. My tee shirt is soaked with sweat mixed with blood from my shoulders. Across from me is one Rod Horn, #71, the pride of Nebraska, nose tackle, 270 pounds of beef-fed, all-American Cornhusker. Rod is a high third-round pick in the draft for the Cincinnati Bengals, and he is convinced that he will either make the team, or not, based on the ass-whipping he puts on me on this very play.
We are equipped with helmets, shorts, T-shirts, and pressure at this first Cincinnati Bengals minicamp for all the new rookies, and a few veterans who barely made the team last year. It’s an early but warm spring day in a blighted downtown area of the city. The practice facility has grass and turf practice fields, a parking lot, and a low cinder block building surrounded by fences. At this first minicamp, we rookies are supposed to demonstrate our athletic skills and conditioning for the coaching staff while running through plays and drills over the course of a long weekend. That meant about 12 draft picks, with future Hall of Famer and #1 draft pick Anthony Munoz the most notable, and several other “free agents” like me, signed by the team to round out the group and fill empty practice spots.
The QB yells “Blue 19, blue 19. Hut! Hut!” I snap the ball and fire out to meet Mr. Nebraska. Rod, apparently, failed to note our attire (no pads) and that this was a “noncontact” drill. For the twentieth time that practice, he head butted me on the shoulders with his face mask, jammed his meaty paws into my chest, throat, face—whatever was available—and went full speed until the whistle blew. More blood seeped from my now-raw shoulders. I went back to the huddle to get ready for the next play. I was the only center in minicamp. Rod was the only nose tackle. It was going to be a long weekend . . .
What the hell was I doing here . . .?
Chapter 1
Just a Kid
I was born in 1958 in Durham, North Carolina, while my dad was in his third year of law school at Duke. My mom was a UNC grad. I weighed in at around 8–9 pounds at birth, a pretty healthy boy. Not sure how my petite, 5 foot 5 inch mom pulled that off.
We moved while I was a few weeks old to Chattanooga, Tennessee. My dad took a job as a lawyer for a small but quality law firm there, a firm he stayed with for 46 years until his retirement. He was 6 feet tall, broad shouldered, and well-built, but not big. There was nothing really in my genetic history to suggest I might someday be an NFL offensive lineman. Sure, my great-grandfather played football for the 1889 Wooster University team—no helmets—and they beat the same team twice that year for a perfect 2-0 record. And my grandfather was a trackman at said Wooster University, and yes, my dad did play center at the (same) College of Wooster for his intramural touch football team. And my mom was quite athletic, though when young she was limited (by social stereotype) to cheerleading. Nevertheless, I am convinced it is her competitive gene that I inherited, and that drove me relentlessly.
I don’t recall playing any organized sports really until fourth grade or so. Until then, growing up in Chattanooga, I basically played hard at recess. I played informal touch and tackle football or basketball games whenever we could get enough kids together to play, whether at school or after school. The “organized” sports in early grade school tended to be kickball, dodgeball, softball, or “Red Rover.” The latter was played by forming up two teams lined up across from one another, about 20 yards apart, arms linked. One team would yell at the other: “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Blake (for example) on over,” at which point I would run full speed at the weakest point in their line and attempt to break through. Given I was one of the beefier kids, once I got my momentum up, I was tough to stop. Breaking through meant the runner continued playing; failing to break through and you’re out.
In the summertime I was sent to “day camp,” which I now know was a way for my mom to get a break from an extremely active boy. For me, it was a chance to play all day, from tag to archery to kickball to just about anything the camp counselors could think up to keep us busy (and tired!).
All this time I continued to grow and was usually one of the larger kids in my class, but not the biggest, and certainly not the most gifted athletically. What I lacked in athletic skill I tried to make up for in enthusiasm. Really, I was one of any of hundreds, thousands, of rather chunky grade-school kids you can see at schools every day. But I always thought, even then, I could play, and win, any game I tried. I was a fierce competitor and hated to lose—a race, a game, ping pong, Red Rover—or in the classroom. My competitive nature applied to my grades and schoolwork too. I always believed I should be the best in class, and loved to be #1.
I attended a small private school, The Bright School (not a play on words, but named for the founders), and in grades 1–6 we moved through school with pretty much the same group of kids. The grade competition could be intense (well, for me), and I was always trying to score higher than the smartest person in my class, Janet Zuckerman. Sometimes I managed, but she was tough on the (chalk)boards!
My earliest recollection of organized football was something we cal