Reggie's Cleats

In your mind, picture the worst football player you’ve ever seen. Now, think about the guy who was 3^rd on the depth chart behind the worst football player you’ve ever seen. That was me. You didn’t picture me in the first place because you never saw me in a real game.

The only reason I made the 9^th-grade team was so all the other guys, no matter how horrible they were could point to me and say “Hey Steve, you suck!” I even earned the nickname “Killer.” I think it’s because the whole team almost died laughing whenever I took the practice field.

But it wasn’t entirely my lack of speed and coordination that kept me down. It was cleats. Reggie’s cleats. Reggie was a great kid, blessed with mammoth size and coordination. I was about the same height as Reggie, but only half the width, which put me at a huge disadvantage whenever I went up against him in practice.

One day, the coaches decided to pit Reggie and me against each other in a little drill called “Root-Hog.” This drill involved 2 players taking their stance facing each other in a mud pit, the object being to move the other guy out of the pit (kinda like Sumo in pads). It required a fair amount of leg strength, which thankfully I had. Everyone figured Reggie was a lock, so this was my big chance to prove myself. The coach blew the whistle and we both dug in, locked shoulder pads and proceeded to push with all our might.

I surprised the coaches by hanging in there as long as I did, but couldn’t get enough traction to avoid the inevitable. As Reggie pushed, I slid backwards on my feet and eventually lost the match. From then on “Killer” kept the bench warm, never to realize his dream of becoming the next Willie Lanier.

I knew I deserved better. You see, it was only the 2^nd or 3^rd practice of the season and I hadn’t harassed my father enough for him to buy me a pair of football cleats! Tennis shoes are worthless in the mud, especially when you’re trying to move a 220-pound 9^th-grader out of the way. It’s even worse when he’s got cleats and you don’t.

9^th grade was my first, last and only time playing organized football, but I have no regrets. At the time I was in the marching band, so I knew I’d be on the field one way or another (cool uniform, no cleats required). Besides, band caused fewer injuries! But to this day I wonder if my football dreams would have been realized if it weren’t for Reggie’s cleats!