Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, January 6, 1995 TAG: 9501060049
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-9 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BOB WILLIS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
He offered as an example a professional play called ``Shotgun spread slot motion strongside all dodge,'' which includes a bewildering array of assignments for various players. It's not a matter simply of brute strength or who can tackle and block the hardest; now, writes Easterbrook, recruiters as far down as junior college ask about a prospect: ``Can he handle the playbook?''
Football has surely come a long way from the flying wedge. That was the mother of all power plays, in which the ball-carrier's teammates surrounded him, locked arms, and simply trampled opponents underfoot on the way to the goal line. The injuries that resulted from this tactic led to introduction of the forward pass and an opening up of the game - and, ultimately, to the endless complexities of the modern sport.
There's a cure for all this. Or at least, a way to render football comprehensible to the intellectual. Let the game adopt the standards we boys followed in my youth.
Right off, the egghead would have trouble finding a stadium to watch from. More than 50 years ago, we played on a flat strip of the schoolyard worn smooth by the tramp of countless feet.
Our field was maybe 50 yards long and 20 wide, and had no sideline markers or yard lines. You were out of bounds if, on one side, you reached the adjoining basketball court or, on the other, you began sliding down the grassy slope that led to the woods below the school. You had four downs not to make a mere 10 yards but to score, and that meant a touchdown; there were no posts to kick field goals through - or the point after TD.
This was a democratic sport. Despite its name, North Clayton High School in rural Georgia included 11 grades, and all boys about 12 years old and up were eligible when the upper-graders chose up sides for one of our recess games.
After the bigger, more talented boys were picked, someone at last would say, ``Well, I guess we'll take old fat-butt Dan"; guess who owned the football, shoulder pads, helmets, cleats and other equipment? The school had none, and we country youngsters were lucky to have shoes of our own, of any kind.
For certain, there was no playbook. We didn't know it, but the T formation, with quarterback up under the center, had come and gone; it would be resurrected, but that was years away. This was the day of the single wing, when the ball was hiked on the fly to the quarterback (usually for a pass) or a running back, sometimes called the tailback. For us, the height of deception was for the hike to go to someone in the backfield not directly behind the center.
But first, you had to huddle. The quarterback might draw a play with his finger in the dust. The last instruction would be something like ``Hike on 3,'' or whatever number he arbitrarily chose. (Discipline probably would have broken down entirely had the center preferred a different number.)
Then we'd line up for the play. Aping Georgia Tech linemen we saw in Atlanta Journal photos, we got down in a three- or four-point stance. Someone, probably the center, growled at the defending line: ``Give us a yard.'' Or if he was more timorous, he pleaded: ``No bucking center,'' because his head would be down, peering between his legs, when he made the snap.
That yard of grace, incidentally, could be important. In one of our games, a defending lineman burst through at the snap and, before the lofty hike began its downward trajectory, intercepted the ball in midair.
Finally we'd be ready, and the signal-caller would reel off a string of numbers. When he reached three or whatever, there came the hike. After that, whatever. If it was a pass, as it usually was, the quarterback might be left naked, with everyone on the line and in the backfield running out in hopes of catching the ball. There were no ineligible receivers, and whether - without realizing it - we ran a hook, a fly or a fade pattern, every one of us wanted the chance to score.
Defenders could be just as eager to pull off an interception. They too might scatter downfield, and the quarterback would have time to bend down and tie his shoelaces. ``Pass rush'' was a term not yet in use, nor was ``quarterback sack;" if the terms had been, doubtless we'd have wanted to be in on it. We wanted to play the game right.
But we were as ignorant of strategy and tactics as we were of most of the rules. Clipping, blocking at the knees, spearing, butting - we did it all. This was supposed to be a rough game. Given the great disparity in sizes, with several grammar-schoolers among the high-school boys, it's a wonder no one ever got hurt. But then, those too were the days when a 200-pound football player was a big kid, and none of us approached that.
Most of our games continued until the bell rang to end recess. But one day there came one of the infrequent occasions when a punt was called for. A hefty kid called Whitey dropped back, took the snap and swung his leg into the ball.
It flew high and far, coming down into a tree near the schoolhouse. When it dropped through the branches and reached the ground, it was flat as a pancake.
That ended our game. Quicker than you could say, ``Shotgun spread slot motion strongside all dodge.''
Bob Willis is retired associate editor of the Roanoke Times & World-News editorial page.
by CNB