SMALL TOWN FOOTBALL PART 5
FRESHMAN FOOTBALL: LEARNING THE GAME – PUTTING ON THAT DAMNED UNIFORM
Now, it was the fall of 1961. The school’s powers that be, had decided that our class would have their own team. The sophomores and juniors were not happy with this decision and called us chickens and other names. We (at least, I ) really did not care.
Mr. Baker, a young, very good athlete, out of Oklahoma, was our assistant coach. Mr. Whitaker, the varsity basketball coach, was our head coach. We had been told in the spring to be in shape and mentioned “lots of running and grass drills” whatever they were. We were also told to get our football shoes in early August and wear them each day just a little until they were broken in and then run a mile in them. A mile!? When would I ever run a mile? I soon found out.
Mossyrock was unique in that the state run liquor store was also a general merchandise store, including footballs shoes, jock straps and cups. A really nice old guy named Pete Doumitt, owned the store. We called it Doumitt’s. Dad kept telling him he should rename it “Pete’s Shoes and Booze.” He said it was the only place in all of Washington that a man could by his caulk boots and a bottle of Seagrams, while his wife bought a scarf and bra and their son got an ice cream bar, football shoes and a jock strap.
I was instructed by Dad to buy black high tops. Some of the fast kids bought the black low cuts, which I knew would make me faster, but Dad said the only thing making me faster would be a jet engine strapped to my ass. Dad had a way with words. The cool thing about the football shoes is that they came with two sets of cleats that screwed on to posts in the sole of the shoe. Longer rubber cleats (up to 1960 or so the cleats were metal, which was really vicious) were used when it was really muddy and traction was needed. Shorter ones were used in good weather. Now and then a cleat would come off and the little spike sticking out could cause a pretty good gash in a leg or arm that may have been stepped on during a play.
We watch football on television now, in the 2020’s, with running backs having no knee pads, shoulder pads that are not much bigger than their shoulders and hip pads made of special collision absorbing material that are less than ½ inch thick and weigh just ounces. The helmet looks like something from Star Wars and most have inflatable cushions inside making the whole thing form fitting to the head. On the front are various kinds of bars and plexi glass shields. Not counting the helmet, the whole uniform, with the skin tight pants and jerseys, is about 5 pounds.
Now let’s look at the uniforms we wore our freshmen year in 1961. This equipment bore very little resemblance to what was described above.
There was no way the school was going to pay for new equipment for, what many thought, was a one year deal. They knew several dam kids would be leaving, so buying new equipment was not going to happen. The coaches scoured the basement storage and found some pieces of equipment that could have been sold in the antique section of EBay had there been such a thing back then.
As we freshmen walked into the gym, we stared at several piles of football gear that had first been used in the late 1940’s and was put in storage in the mid 1950’s. These piles of semi moldy, still carrying dirt from games played a dozen years prior and mostly ripped torn and taped together uniform pieces were going to be ours before the end of the day.
The seniors had been recruited, OK, told, they were going to help choose our equipment and learn how to wear each piece. They were very helpful…to a point.
First we needed to choose a helmet. The helmets were the basic Riddell 1950’s style; a thin piece of plastic molded to generically fit several sizes of heads. Inside the helmet was a suspension system made of ½ inch nylon straps. There were four or five 2×2 inch and maybe ½ inch thick chunks of hard rubber glued inside the helmet from which the suspension straps were hung. The theory was that the suspension would protect the head form hitting the sides of the helmet when delivering or receiving a blow and the pieces of rubber would add further protection. I can attest that such theory was not a sound one.
The other problem was that the helmets were actually from the pre face bar era. Holes had been drilled in the helmets and new, plastic single bar face bars had been screwed on. A layer of red spray paint helped make them appear like the new helmets. The problem was that the screws easily came loose so when the face bar would encounter contact, which is fairly constant in football, it would slide upward or downward, making it pretty useless in protecting the face as it was supposed to do. After each play, we would have to grab the bar and put it back into position to protect our nose and mouth. Even if the single bar had stayed in place, that was just wishful thinking.
Lastly, there were about 20 helmets in all for 16 freshmen. Getting the right size was a problem. The seniors told us to get them a little large, because you always stick in a towel or watch hat to get it to fit more snugly. A helmet that was too tight would just cause headaches and an embarrassing red ring around the forehead. It did, however, keep the wearer from “ear holing” as the seniors called it. This is when a player with a loose helmet is grabbed around the head and when he gets up, his helmet has been twisted enough so that he is looking out the ear hole. I had to get a helmet that was too large so I could fit my glasses on underneath, so I have been ear holed more than once. It was not all that bad, except the ears stung a bit.
Below: A picture of basic helmets with single and double face bar and a picture of the suspension system.
The shoulder pads were next. This pile had a combination of the very old early 1950 red pads and some more late 50’s whites. Compared to today’s cut down versions that are barley larger than the shoulders, the pads of the 50’s and 60’s were enormous. Once on and covered with a white jersey, the player resembled an angel. I could not go through a door without having to go sideways. They were pretty heavy as well.
Below: Red and white shoulder pads. I think I had the white ones.
Now we faced the fun part; the hip pads. Players today have hip pads that are put on like a pair of bike shorts and include the thigh pads as well. The modern hip pads are form fitting and weigh just ounces.
Our hips pad were plastic monstrosities that were uncomfortable and heavy as pictured below. Looking closely to the left of the picture one can see the metal bracket for the nylon belt to loop through and tie the hip pads around the player’s waist. It was really hard to get the belt tight enough for the pads to stay in place. After some plays they would slide down to the knees or twist sideways and we would be in a constant state of adjustment.
How do we put them on, we ask the seniors? They were more than happy to help us with this. They said even though the belt ties in front, we must twist them around so the protrusion goes in the front to protect your privates. We thought that seemed to make sense.
Pants, thigh pads and knee pads were next. The pants had pockets (or were supposed to) in which the thigh and knee pads were inserted. Most of the pockets had holes in them so the pads would flop around and end up on the ground after playing for a while. We resorted to using athletic tape to hold them down. Some of the kids had so much tape holding various pads in place, they looked like the Mummy. I remember running down the field and the tape coming loose on my knee pads. Both of them began flopping and beating against my ankle and thigh in rhythm with my running. I sounded like some sort of slow moving motor boat.
The practice and game jerseys were next. They were one in the same. We were given white, long sleeved, very heavy jerseys and told that we could practice in them, but they had better be clean for any game. I’m not sure of the material, but it had to be part wool and cotton. Most of us figured that we could find some old hunting sweatshirt of large t-shirt for practice. I did get #39 for my game jersey. That was Hugh Mcheleney’s number. He had been my Dad’s favorite player at the University of Washington and an All-American running back.
Below: These pants are in way better condition than the ones we had. Knee and thigh pads shown as well.
We had our own socks and shoes, so we were ready. We ran out on the field for the seniors and coaches to see us all decked out and ready to be football players. We were all running with our legs apart, in a kind of fast waddle. I thought “damn, running with this dang thing between my legs is just not going to work. It’s supposed to protect my jewels, but at what cost? How can I even run? Maybe I have it on wrong?’ I looked around to see all my classmates waddling along and trying to adjust that dam pad rubbing our thighs.
The seniors and coaches were cracking up. Finally, Coach Taylor said,” OK guys. Drop your pants and change around those hip pads. The protrusion is supposed to go in the back to protect you tailbone.” We gave the seniors dirty looks, but realized they probably went through the same thing three years previous.
We dropped our pants and were in the process of shifting pads around, when some kid asked, “OK coach. How we gonna protect our nuts?” Mr. Taylor held up a jock strap and white piece of oval plastic about the size of a tea plate. He said, “You will use these and that is mandatory.” We knew what the jock strap was, although very few of us had ever used one, but we had no idea what the strange looking plastic thing was. I had a weird feeling I had seen one before, but I just could not place it.
Mr. Taylor said “this is a jock strap for football, holding up the jockstrap. He want on, “This will keep your valuables all in one place.” Yeh,” said, Mike, “ Then everything can get hit at once.” We all laughed, nervously.
Mr. Taylor then held up the other item. He said, “gentlemen, this is a cup. It will save you in case you want to have kids later in life.” I was starting to get a little queasy. Mr. Taylor added, “you put the cup inside the pocket in the jockstrap and you are safe to go.” Unfortunatley for me, he added, “ Just make sure to wash them out after practice or you will get jock itch and that’s not fun.”
I blurted out, “shit.” Mr. Taylor, who knew I was a straight arrow and would never cuss if not for a very good reason, turned to me with a surprised look. “You got something to say, Haslett?” “no sir, “ I said, while bile was coming into my mouth.
I had recognized the cup. My brother, Rich was an all conference running back as a senior when I was in 4th grade. I had seen his cup laying by the washing machine on a Saturday morning. I asked him what it was and he said it was part of an old WWII bomber face mask that they wore when flying at high altitude. He said his friend, who’s Dad had worn it when flying over Germany, had given it to him. He said he knew I liked playing war in the old car out behind the wood pile and I could have it on the weekends, but he needed it during the week. I never questioned such a great gift. Each Saturday, I would run rubber bands through the holes to hold it onto my face, while I played WWII fighter ace, sitting in our old 1952 Plymouth that was on blocks behind the house. Jim and Rich made sure to walk by to ask me how I was doing. I thought that was strange, as they usually paid no attention to me. I had no idea what they were laughing about each time they came by. For some reason, probably because they would have caught the wrath of Mom and Dad, they never told me.
The thought of having that cup on may face after Rich had worn it on his junk all week was nauseating, but I told no one. I got over it after a while and dutifuly wore my cup as Coach Taylor instructed. I promised myself to wash it every night. I rarely did.
Even years later, as a high school coach and town team basketball player, when I saw someone putting on a jock strap, my mind would sometimes flash back to that little kid sitting in a 1952 Plymouth with his brothers cup on his face. By this time my brother had passed away at the young age of 39. I would smile and think, “ you got me, Rich, you bastard.”