JACOBSON, YOU GOTTA BLOCK!

(note: some names were changed in this blog, but the details are basically accurate)

In the autumn of 1974, I put on an official football uniform for the first time. There were pants with inserted thigh and knee pads and these odd little foamy half circles that snapped to each side of the waist. There were shoulder pads that made me look huge - they must’ve weighed nearly 10 pounds - a colossal mass of plastic that retained the stench of years and years of sweaty use by 12-year-old footballers before me. There were cleated shoes that had been duly purchased the prior week at the Gibson’s store in York. Cost - $12. These were bland, Spalding-brand black cleats, about a half size too small, with no stripes, guaranteed to make the youngster wearing them appear to be running through a foot of water. Speedy looking cleats these were not. 

Prior to this, my football clothes were the Christmas catalog variety. For the 1970, ‘71 and ‘72 holidays I asked for, and received, kids’ football uniforms from the manufacturer known as Hutch Sporting Goods. The first year was a San Diego Chargers-style uniform - snazzy as hell with a navy blue jersey, blue-striped tan pants and a white plastic helmet. The following year was on the snoozy side - a generic red jersey with white pants, no helmet. And then Christmas of ‘72 produced a pro-style LA Rams helmet with an actual grey facemask. It was fabulously cool and made me feel like Roman Gabriel, who was tall, tan, handsome and the actual QB of the Rams at the time, not a husky 10-year-old farm boy from east central Nebraska. 

When I wore these Hutch football uniforms on the north yard of the family farm, I was always the superstar. The agile quarterback slinging a 50-yard-rocket for a touchdown. The swift wide receiver diving in the end zone to execute the fingertip, game-winning catch. The rugged tailback lugging the ball for another 20-yard gain, fighting off tacklers along the way. I took the hits (from myself) and called the action as it was being transferred from my brain to my legs. This would go on for hours at a time, solo, during the months of September, October, November and even into December. 

And then came the actual school gear - the official, smelly stuff. The stink alone of this well-used middle school football equipment was enough of an eye-opener. No, this was not the Jacobson Farm north yard. This was Stromsburg Junior High Football, with coach Russell Kogar. 

Russell Kogar, whose main gig was teaching junior and senior high social studies and serving as varsity head wrestling coach. Later, that same autumn of 1974, I would actually impress Mr. Kogar, being one of only two students to accurately name the 93 Nebraska counties, their license plate numbers and county seats. These were the kinds of assignments Russell Kogar found important - and Brad Christensen and moi were the only two from the Class of 1980 to pull that rabbit from the hat. Dazzling Coach Kogar on the gridiron however? Well, that wasn’t happening any time soon. 

The 1974 Stromsburg Junior High football team had three games that autumn. Game #1 was a Friday afternoon affair in York, against St. Joseph Catholic Junior High. We dressed in our football gear before boarding the bus for the 18-mile drive from Stromsburg to York. It was a steamy, early September day in east-central Nebraska, so when Lloyd Carmichael opened the long, vertical bus door at East Hill Park in York, some 30 or so 7th and 8th grade boys bounded out with a Samsonesque determination. Then we hit the field for pre-game warm-ups and had our first glance at the opponent.

They were men. Enormous men.

These catholic boys from York looked like they’d just come off a fishing boat in Bar Harbor, having been 60 days on the Atlantic, netting white haddock and blue fish for the winter. Unshaven, surly, and massive.

At first glance, we had already lost. 

Eschewing the gory details, in a nutshell, the afternoon did not go well. It was hot, humid and terribly one-sided. I saw action at both fullback and offensive left tackle. I carried the ball three times for one yard - an average of .33 yards per carry. Did you see that (.) before the 33? Stats like those will not win you a Heisman Trophy any time soon. 

In the second half, down 33-0, our quarterback, dreamy 8th grade sensation Donnie Mackey, was mercilessly sacked for a ten-yard loss by several of the St. Joseph longshoremen. I was playing left tackle at the time and, at least partly responsible for allowing the onslaught of York rushers to feast on our QB. At which point, Coach Russell Kogar screamed from the sideline for all of the 40 or so spectators still paying attention to hear:

JACOBSON, YOU GOTTA BLOCK!

It was news to me that the six York behemoths who had leveled Donnie Mackey seconds earlier were all supposed to be blocked by me. Uh….coach, there were like six guys who sacked Mackey…….are you kidding me? 

He wasn’t.

Back in the huddle, my empowered teammates were now critics piling on - Geez, Jake...block! Jake, you quittin’ out there? C’MON! They’re killin’ Mack, thanks to you, Jake!  It was a veritable Thanksgiving feast of criticism. Roman Gabriel never had to put up with shit like this.

Sadly (or maybe not), that very moment was the beginning of the end for my competitive team sports experience. Things were so much better in the north yard, by myself, in my Hutch catalog football gear. Oh, I stuck it out for another three years - enduring two-a-day practices in the August heat leading up to varsity football my freshman and sophomore years, sporting number 64 on the offensive line. At the varsity level, Russell Kogar was the assistant to head coach Kevin Doinman, who was fond of telling his boys before every game to “take a knee.” Silence would follow and supposedly, for the next five seconds or so, we all prayed to either Lynyrd Skynyrd or whatever God we were following at the time. In my mind, I imagined Coach Doinman silently beseeching the Almighty, Please, please….just don’t let 64 get out there on the field.

By the autumn of 1978, his prayers were answered. My football playing days had ended. A manifestation recognized in at least half of Nebraska’s 93 counties, including Dundy County -  county seat, Benkelman - license number, 76.