A Look Back at my Short-Lived Sub-Varsity Football Career

Many people I know, close friends included, don't realize that I even played high school football, much less that I played for perhaps the worst team imaginable. This might be an exaggeration, but not as much of one as you would think: the Newark Academy Minutemen finished their 1996 campaign with a record of 1-8. They failed to score a single point until the sixth game of the season, which they eventually lost by a score of 30-6. They did beat Sussex Tech though - by a lot, let the record show - so there was at least some distance between the Minutemen and the bottom of the barrel.

This was my freshman year of high school. (I only attended Newark Academy for that one year, before returning to public school as a sophomore.) I practiced with the varsity team that season - not because I was unusually talented, or strong, or fast, but because there simply weren't enough players to field a J.V. team, and there were no other options. The upshot was that I didn't feel any obligation to care about my team's record: since I barely played, I was in no way responsible for its fortunes. Losses only really affected me personally insomuch as they tended to weaken morale and increase the length and difficulty of practices. Sure, I rooted for my team from the sidelines, but I wasn't overly upset when we got routed - which happened pretty frequently. After we lost to Chatham (my former school), I got chewed out by our senior captain for blithely flirting with some of the opposing cheerleaders, instead of looking appropriately bummed out.

I see that N.A. Football apparently finished with a record of 3-6 this year. Good for them!

More than rooting for a team victory, I rooted for a lopsided score one way or the other, so that I would have a chance of getting into the game. The more action I saw, the more hope I would have of earning a highly-coveted varsity letter, a truly rare accomplishment for a freshman. Most of our games were in fact blowouts, meaning that I often took the field for a late-game kickoff, or even a full defensive series. The team was so thoroughly outclassed by Montclair Immaculate that I ended up playing most of the fourth quarter. In the closing minutes, I even notched a tackle of their star tailback, which made it difficult to stifle a grin as we got back on the bus following a 42-0 drubbing.

The Minutemen were on my mind last week, when I realized that twenty years had passed since my first and last season of high school ball. Specifically, I found myself thinking about the last game of the season, the Thanksgiving game against Montclair Kimberley Academy - one of the only contests I didn't enter, since it came down to the wire. At the half, we were up 21-0. We would go on to lose 24-21. I remember our seniors openly sobbing on the sidelines as time expired. They had just led their team to a 1-8 finish, but to me, they were larger than life heroes, and it was jarring to see them so broken.

In the end, I didn't earn that varsity letter, which was kind of bullshit. I had practiced with the varsity since two-a-days back in August, and I had seen action in six of nine total games. But at the Varsity Letter Assembly, held in front of the entire school in early December, I found my name along with the names of the other freshman grunts, listed under "Sub-Varsity." I haven't heard that term since, and I remember thinking that someone had invented it specifically so they wouldn't have give me a varsity letter. Twenty years later, I've turned out fine, and I'm well aware that it really, really doesn't matter any more, but even as I'm recounting this, I feel my blood pressure rising slightly.

No-Shave November

I'm not sure whether men are naturally more competitive than women, but it does seem, based on my experience, that we compete over stupider things. In high school, every boy wants to outshine his friends athletically, academically and romantically. I know I did. It's at least somewhat understandable that guys should compete in these three realms, but friendly rivalry tends to spill over into seemingly irrelevant areas: Whose favorite NFL team beat whose? Who is the best at Golden Eye? (I assume now it's Call of Duty?) Who has the best one-liners? In third grade, I remember actually being proud of myself because I was half an inch taller and five pounds heavier than a classmate. Yes, I took pride in my weight: eighty pounds was undeniably more than seventy-five pounds, which meant that I was... five points better in the great scoreboard of life, I guess.

At some point, most guys seem to outgrow their taste for petty competition. For me, that point was the decade spanning from 2000 to 2010, which began with the end of my high school athletic career and ended with my meeting the woman I would ultimately marry. I had some wonderful times during this era, but I also can't say I miss it. I think for a lot of guys - and again, I'll include myself in this - every stupid competition seems like a direct commentary on your masculinity. As in, I am only a Man if I get this girl's number. I am only a Man if I make varsity. I am only a Man if I score at least a 1300 on my SAT's. I'm happy I don't think that way any more, but since I teach ninth grade English at an all-boys' school, I'm constantly surrounded by guys who do.

Ninth graders at my school are generally polite and respectful, but fairly or not, some of them afford extra respect to the teachers they perceive as embodying their very narrow definitions of masculinity. Male teachers who also coach sports or who have served in the military enjoy automatic street cred. At this point in my life, I'm secure enough in my identity not to want to change anything about myself in order to win approval from a high school student. But on the other hand, if a high school student finds something about me worthy of approval, I certainly won't mind. As it turned out when I began at my current school, the boys were fairly indifferent to my degrees and my accomplishments as a writer, and only marginally more interested in my experience as a wrestling coach. They were, however, fascinated by my ability to grow a beard.

It's true: I can grow a thick beard very quickly. I am neither proud nor embarrassed of this fact - just as I am neither proud nor embarrassed of having unattached earlobes. But one morning, I came into school without having shaved and a boy asked me if I was trying to grow a beard. I responded that no, I didn't think I was; I had only missed a day of shaving. Cue a disbelieving, possibly envious chorus of ooh's and aah's from twelve suddenly rapt fourteen-year-olds. I never thought that thick facial hair was particularly notable, but I also wasn't above trying to use it to my pedagogic advantage. I once told a class that if they all completed their homework on time, I would reward them with an embarrassing picture of myself sporting ridiculous facial hair. The next morning, when they produced their completed assignments, I presented them with this gem:

I drink your milkshake!

At this time of year, No-Shave November, my beard is out in full force. It's an instant conversation piece: boys I haven't spoken to for much of the year will stop me in the hallway to admire it or to ask me when I last shaved. (The answer is October 31st. "I don't need any head starts," I assure them.) Ok, so sometimes I do take a certain amount of ironic pride in the beard - even though I am ever-conscious that I did absolutely nothing to earn it. And truth be told, it gets unbearably itchy after a month, and I'm always happy to get rid of it.

But for the month of November, I milk it while I can. In the past two years, I've won two No-Shave November Faculty Beard Titles. Yes, this is a thing, and yes, it comes with a prize. Last year it was a box of Safeway sugar cookies with bright green frosting. I tweeted after last year's championship that I had more titles than Lebron. We're actually tied now, but in my mind, I'm still winning: I dropped what should have been an easy title two years ago when I caved to family pressure at Thanksgiving, and prematurely shaved.

Let's be clear on this: having a thick beard doesn't make you a Man. Abraham Lincoln had one. So did Ted Kaczynski. As far as I can tell, there is no correlation. I hope to impart this idea to my students. And I plan to keep trying to earn respect and admiration in other, more substantive ways. But in the mean time, if you'll excuse me, I have another Beard Title to win.

First and Last Political Post

I try to stay away from politics on social media. I have plenty to say about politics - How could you not during this election cycle? - but I don't want to add to the deluge of posts on Facebook and Twitter. Plus, I feel I should watch my mouth (especially since some of my students are aware of this blog).

That being said, it would feel a little cheap to just continue with my thoughts on Walking Dead, or something dumb like that, without at least commenting on Tuesday's events a little bit. So here's what I've been thinking:

I strongly dislike Donald Trump. I don't think I'm breaking any new ground when I say I think he's a bully, a sexist and a racist. Maybe most offensive to me personally, because it calls into question my value as an educator: I think he's a raging anti-intellectual. I'm going to have a hard time even acknowledging that he is indeed the president, much less embracing him.

I've never felt so simultaneously shocked and depressed after an election. In the first four elections of my adult life, I voted against George W. Bush (twice), John McCain and Mitt Romney. I disagreed with their ideas, but I always felt that they were fundamentally good people. I remember seeing McCain correct the woman at a town hall meeting who said she didn't trust Obama because he was an "Arab," and thinking that he was a real mensch for speaking up. I don't have the same respect for Trump and I don't know if I ever will, although I am going to try really hard to be open-minded.

I feel you, Man...

But today I'm actually trying to think less about Trump himself than about his core constituents: middle and lower-middle-class white people in small towns and rural communities. I lived in the rural mid-western town of Gambier, Ohio for the better part of four years, and even though it was kind of a liberal bubble, I got to know plenty of people in the surrounding towns. There was the mechanic in Centerburg who replaced my car's clutch and brakes and charged me a really fair price for the service. And there was the waitress who always served me at the High Diner in Mount Vernon. And there was my eleven-year-old little brother (in the Knox County Big Brothers-Little Brothers program) who once, after a trip to the movies, gave me some deer bologna. He had killed the deer in his backyard, and his biological older brother had helped him clean it and cure the meat.

There was also the man in the old pickup truck, with a Bush/Cheney bumper sticker, who appeared out of nowhere when my car broke down on Route 80 in Western Pennsylvania, and helped me temporarily fix my engine so I could drive to the nearest gas station.

These were all good people: they weren't some faceless hicks trying to screw up the country. And at the risk of making a sweeping generalization, I bet they all voted for Trump (even the eleven-year-old boy who is now of voting age, I guess). If Clinton had won, I would have resented anyone who used the word "lib-tard" (has there ever been a dumber insult?) or whined about the liberal elite and their out-of-touch Washington insider agenda. So while I dislike Trump, and disapprove of his being elected, I am not going to take part in any protests. And I'm not going to rail against the "dumb asses" or "rednecks" or "basket of deplorables" who voted for him. Make no mistake: I'm still really hurting from this, and I'm not sure I am in the mood to be understanding and empathetic yet. But I have a strong desire not to go through life hating half the country. I want to respect the people who voted for Trump (except, obviously, for avowed racists like this jerk who can go f themselves). At some point, I know I will want to understand why they made the choice they did, even if I won't ever agree with it.