Moonball by Jim Wise
Posted Friday, June 4, 2010 06:03 PM

Moonball Part 1 of 4

They all knew what the whistles meant. As they gathered around and each took one knee and removed his helmet, the coach's expression told them the whole story. WHS head football coach Howard Allen was not a good loser. The first practice after a game defeat was always painful. "The sport of football," he snarled, "is a contact sport. Today, we work on fundamentals until it's too **** dark to see the **** football." They knew what that meant, too. Along with chaotic violence, there is elegant precision in the execution of every play, at every position on a team. But like all things complex, football is also simple. There are really only two kinds of fundamental contact in the game -- blocking and tackling. A full practice of blocking and tackling is like two games back to back with no halftimes. And so, at mid-afternoon on that crisp autumn day, the games began. There was no coliseum. There were no Romans, no lions. There were some Christians, and they were taking their Lord's name in vain. As the hours wore on, some of them felt the blood, of wounds on the outside and bruises on the inside. All of them felt the sweat. A few of them hoped tears would not come. 
 
 
Jim W. Houston, Texas                             1/21/2006

 

MOONBALL Part 2 of 4 

But there was hope as the shadows lengthened. When they had a precious lull in the action, their eyes wandered skyward, praying for darkness -- at least enough darkness so you couldn't see the **** football. But instead, incredibly, new light was gathering. As the sun sank, a big full moon was on the rise. It was one of those odd days in autumn with a celestial battle for supremacy of the skies. It was a harvest moon, a sailor's moon -- the kind of moon that tries to be a sun. Like the light of a full moon on a clear night, Howard Allen was more than he first seemed to be. Though slight of build, he made the beefiest and toughest among them tremble. He was ancient in their estimation, but he moved like a cat. His booming voice seemed to be coming from another body, one at least twice his actual size. But most of all, his vision was not to be underestimated. Through coke bottle thick glasses, Coach Allen's squinting, weathered eyes saw all. At 400 yards, he could spot Friesen sneaking a water break, an offense punishable by laps around the track. And he could see the faint smile of the player, either Ripper, or Gruner, or Herrin, or someone else, who was promptly sentenced to join Friesen.

 

 
Jim W.
Houston, Texas
 
 
1/21/2006

MOONBALL Part 3 of 4

From the sidelines of the Bellaire game, Coach had read lips as Cunningham suggested the defense tear somebody a new something. In the Lamar game, he had counted Wise's frantic blinks trying to relocate a punt in the stadium lights. He saw through Kelly's attempts in the South Houston game to disguise injuries that would cause most people to call for an ambulance. And he had not missed Clark lining up behind a surprised guard and reaching in for the snap. The moon rose higher. The grunts and thuds of blocking and tackling ground on and on. They were already late for dinner. They prayed harder, for all footballs to disappear into the night. Finally, whistles pierced the night air. Coach bellowed, "OK, men, it's too **** dark to see the **** football!" A silent sigh of relief shuddered through the gladiators gathered around him. A few rose, and began to move slowly toward the locker room, trying to hide their rejoicing. Then a few more joined them, and a few more.


 
Jim W.
Houston, Texas
 
 
1/21/2006

MOONBALL Part 4 of 4

All of them were on their feet now, looking longingly toward the silhouetted building. As the dreaded whistle shrieked again, they heard, "But it ain't too **** dark to see the **** football FIELD! Everybody, ten sprints, goal line to goal line. Coach Thornhill, line 'em up!" Years later, they weren't sure who had named it "moonball". Was it the devilish Merrell? Was it Carruthers, who led the prayers, at least the official ones? Was it the crafty Collins, or the wry Spencer? Could it have been Woodall, Palmer, Price, or Pine? Jackson, Brimer, or Davis? Or was it one of the others who wore the colors? No matter. They had been through it together. And whether their spirit that season was brighter or darker for it, you couldn't tell right away -- that is, unless you had the eyes of a football coach.

 The following is an administration recognition.

Copyrighted Material 2006
Jim Wise