The Sports Page

I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Eddie Clark

Timeline:  12:21h 25 November, 2019

I live about two blocks from the  ________  High School Football field.  I can hear (really, really hear) the field’s P.A. system from my house.  And I’m 59 years old, dammit:  you’d think I might not be thinking of my high school football team anymore.  But…no way.  Every first weekend of September…it’s ridiculous.  I sit on my deck and hear the whistles and cheers from the  ________  field (and the blaring pre-game Rap music…what the…) and I am reminded of the Panas ‘78 season opener.  Every single time.

It was away, versus Portchester High.

As noted previously, the Panas ’78 squad had something of the Shakespearean Tragedy about it.  A very good group of athletes, tightly bound together by and through neighborhood pick-up games, the Cortlandt and Shrub Oak Little Leagues, junior-high after-school leagues, and some fierce Freshman and J.V. scrums.  Mix in a parental death here, a move-away or two there, a teammate’s life-altering injury, and four consecutive years of budget cuts which put every football season on the chopping block until the very last minute, and lo-and-behold we became a fairly tight knit group.

Also as previously noted, our senior season was essentially cancelled before it began due to a Teacher-Union Strike, which took away our Varsity Coaches.  It was resurrected at the very last minute thanks to John Sarkissian and Vincent Giglio, old-time Lakeland (cross-town rival) coaches who swooped in and saved our season, and our lives.

We thought we were going to be really, really good.  And we were good, and we all knew it, every one of us.  The coaches knew it too, and they were excited about our prospects against Portchester and indeed, the entire upcoming season.

It seemed like there was electricity in the air that day (and there probably was, as we played most of that game in a driving rainstorm).  I remember us coming down this concrete ramp which led from the bus drop-off to the field.  And almost unbelievably—to us anyway, because we didn’t have much of a P.A. system at the Panas field—music began to play.  Loud.  And it was the theme to the film Rocky.

Remember, I am talking about 1977-78.  The film came out in February ’77, and by that first weekend in September it was already iconic, ingrained in America’s psyche.   (It remains so to this day).  When it came on back then it had this Pavlonian effect:  suddenly one needed to jog, arms raised, upstairs, preferably in donwtown Philly.  It was dumb, but weirdly motivational.

And there we were.  Well, we didn’t expect it, never saw it coming.  Not that song, not any song really.  We were already busting out of our skin.  Tight as drums.  After everything that had happened leading up to that season, that game.  The tap, tap, tap of our cleats on that concrete ramp, each of us lost in our own vision of glory, big-time butterflies, wordlessly entering field level and hearing the cheers of our parents and friends.  And in the background, so very loud, Rocky.  At that brief moment in time, life didn’t get any better….

Well, we played the game of our life, the absolute game of our life.  It wasn’t what one would call ‘good football’.  It was a death-spiral, each team trading sloppy, mud-slung errors and unsung, game saving plays—back and forth, back and forth.  I fumbled away two punts myself.  (I still cringe to this day.  Right now I am cringing).  But our defense stood fast each time, and we took the ball back on four downs.  Early in the game Timmy Hogan threw himself in front of their bullnecked full-back, taking the helmet directly to his chest and fell to the ground, writhing.  His shoulder was completely separated.  It shook us to the core:  Timmy H. was invincible.

I remember the very last play of the game.  Their tail back, one of the best around at the time, a kid named Anthony Faust had the ball.  He ran up the middle and lowered his shoulder and three of our guys converged.  A running back knows when the hammer is about to drop and braces accordingly.  Faust was tough, really tough, but just a fraction of a second before DayRow and KD and Gussy hit him simultaneously I very distinctly, very clearly heard him say, almost pleadingly: “No!”  The ref blew the game-ending whistle, took the ball, and actually shook Kenny Dahl’s hand.

We lost 2-0.  On a touchback.  It was a baseball game score.

We never saw it coming, losing.  We were not cocky; that’s not who we were.  Nobody on that team was boisterous or loud or show-boaty.  Au contraire.  I think we were just naïve:  we were thinking undefeated season, and we lost our very first game.

The following Monday morning Mr. Elliott Gould, the Panas principal interrupted the early morning announcements. He said he had a letter from the referees of the game.  I don’t remember the details of that letter, but in essence the refs were thanking us, the football players from Panas and Portchester High.  They said that from the first whistle to the last, it was the best, and most sportsmanlike high school football game they had ever witnessed.  I never heard of a group of refs getting together like that, and essentially hand delivering a letter on Monday morning.

It didn’t take away the sting of being 0-1.  But it kinda helped.

Tommy and Mike – Varsity Bonfire

Timeline: 05:41h Tuesday 05 December 2011
If a lot of my threads have to do with high school sports, please forgive me. It was the best part of high school for me, by far.
As mentioned earlier, we had a very, very good freshman football team. In fact, we were the best around, unbeaten in nine games.
Several of us had older brothers who had played for the 74-75 WPHS Section One Football (and Lacrosse) Championship teams. We felt we had the talent (and pedigree) to repeat that remarkable acheivement in 1978, our senior year.
It is hard to overstate the excitement and anticipation before the season. It was in the air all summer long.
John White was a star running-back on our freshman squad. When John’s father died suddenly later that year, John had to move away. He transferred back just before the start of 12th grade in order to play with our team. The circle was complete.
I remember the air was literally vibrating with intensity at our first August double-session practice. We could not wait for the season to officially begin.
We had one August practice, maybe two, and then the teacher strike was announced. Our coaches belonged to the Union, and they were officially on strike. Suddenly we learned that we had no coaches, and that our season would be cancelled unless the strike was settled.
August slogged on. The team gathered for workouts on our own, but they were largely ineffective. Other teams in the area were already running through their playbooks, drilling particular skills, scrimmaging against other teams. We waited for news of a settlement.
The summer was almost over, and our senior season was essentially cancelled before it began.
And then, just as suddenly, we were told we had two new coaches. I don’t remember an announcement, or how I found out. I just remember practicing one day at the Lakeland High School field, our cross-town rival.
Our two new coaches were to be Mr. John Sarkissian, and Mr. Vincent Giglio. The were part of the Administration Department at Lakeland High, former football coaches back in the 1950’s and 1960’s, since retired.
As Administrators, they belonged to a different union and therefore were not subject to the district-wide strike. They agreed to come out of retirement and coach our team.
Sark and Gig were seasoned coaches who brooked no nonsense and put us through our paces immediately. They understood high school football as naturally as you and I breathe the air.
It is impossible for me to adequately describe the gift that John Sarkissian and Vincent Giglio gave to us. It was literally a lifeline to a desperate, sinking group of boys. They worked with us tirelessly all season, teaching us a new system from scratch. They saved our senior season, allowing us to play together one last time. It meant everything to all of us, and we would have followed them off the edge of a cliff.
A good coach, like a good teacher, can change a young person’s life forever. Coach Sarkissian and Coach Giglio did that for me. I’ve played a lifetime of sports, and they were the two best coaches I ever had. I will never forget them, nor can I ever thank them enough.

Sark

H., KD, Dr. No (and Frankie Dalo)

Sometimes killing a fly with a sledgehammer is appropriate. It doesn’t make the fly any more dead, but the rest of the flies sure do sit up and take notice.
Major I.L. Holdbridge, U.S.M.C.