I remember walking into the old Ferguson building that resembled a 50-year-old middle school to find the incoming inaugural football coach, Matt Kelchner. I had never played before, besides with neighborhood friends right before Turkey Day dinner as we all went home to eat after being bloodied and bruised by each other. I figured if I was going to start playing in college, that a brand new team would be so awful and I could pick up the game quickly. Holy shit was I wrong on both accounts.
“I’d like to walk onto the football team.”
“What do you play?”
“I’ve never played before, but I want to try out for receiver.”
“Huh… Well come to workouts in the spring and we’ll see what
you’ve got.”
Workouts were early in the morning
and if it weren’t for my freshman year suitemate, Chris Blancett, coming into
my dorm room to check to see if I was awake to go with him, I probably would
not have continued on this adventure.
Thank you, Chris. Workouts
commenced and they were hilarious. We
had young guys that had played their whole lives. We had guys with gray hair and broken down
bodies. We had guys that had vodka
coming out of their pores from just a few hours earlier and would quickly take
a trip to vomit in trash cans after a few sprints… which made other guys join
them because of the smell aerating around the stuffy b-ball court of old
Ferguson. Guys were even getting
arrested. I thought, “I think I got
this.” Again, way off.
We didn’t have cuts because there
weren’t enough of us to make a full 100-man roster so we were all invited to
the dreaded summer training camp known as “two-a-days,” meaning at least two
practices a day and meetings in between and after during the hottest part of
the summer. I went out with excitement
and enthusiasm. I noticed that coach had
found quite a lot of players to either transfer from bigger schools, where they
weren’t getting the playing time they wanted or beefed up players straight out
of high school. They all looked like
titans to my scrawny ass, but I was small and under developed my whole life so
the scrapper mentality took over as I lined up to catch some passes. After three successful catches and making up
my own routes since I didn’t know the difference between a hitch, curl or post
route, coach pulled me aside.
“Umm, you’re too slow.
What other sports have you played?”
“Baseball, basketball, soc…”
“Soccer, ok, we need a kicker! Go kick.”
“I have no idea how to kick a football.”
“That’s ok, the team chaplain is the kicking coach and he’ll
help you out.”
Not off to
a good start, but if kicking literally got my foot in the door as a sophomore
then that’s what I would do. I went to
see the kicking coach and I quickly learned he was as experienced at coaching a
kicker as I was with football.
“Alright kicker! You see those those goal posts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kick the ball at ‘em!”
Needless to
say, I started off as a 3rd string kicker. I eventually moved to 2nd string
kicker and 1st string smart ass.
There were so many of us and our faces were hidden by the helmets, the
coaches had us put tape on the forehead portion of the helmets and then we were
to write our names on them for quicker identification. I decided to write “Gladiator” on mine so
every time I put it on, I recited Russel Crowes revelation in the movie “Gladiator”
to the evil Caesar, “My name… is Gladiator.”
This brought a lot of laughs to the locker room since I was probably the
last person you’d put in the “bad-ass” department… of anything. The coaches weren’t always in the mood for
jokes so it quickly turned to “Vance.”
Training
camp ended and the inaugural season kicked off with a loss. I was buried on the bench, but did my part to
help out and tried to learn the game while being the ball bitch or scout team All-American. Then 9/11 happened. I spoke to a marine recruiter, but in the end
decided to finish school before heading into the military. I ended up making the travel squad because
Coach wanted to bring two kickers for some reason. I had no idea why until we loaded up the
busses for a trip to Averett. Coach
jumped onto my bus and pointed right at me.
“Williams ain’t here!
You’re kicking tomorrow!”
The bus
went nuts as we found out the starting kicker didn’t make it on time and my
face turned pale.
“Vance! Look at your face!” Veney shouted.
My heart
sank because I knew I wasn’t ready. Tyrell
Veney was one of our D-ends and a part of the infamous “four horsemen,” whose
talent I idolized. He was also
alphabetically stuck with the kicker for roommate assignments that night.
“Do you think we’ll win by a lot tomorrow?” I asked.
“I don’t care by how much.
We just have to win.” He always
stayed positive and it was contagious.
I had
called my parents and told them I would be starting, but it wasn’t a big deal
so they shouldn’t make the long drive from the D.C. area. My Mom was fighting cancer and I didn’t want
her to see her son fail, so if I succeeded I’d ask them to drive to the next
game. Game time! I was nervous as hell. After one of the kickoffs I ran down the
field to make contact to get the nerves out.
David Briggs saw me fend off a block.
“Aight kicker! I see you fightin’!”
That was as
good as it got for me that day. Five
extra point attempts. I missed wide
left, hit each pole once, hit one of my lineman in the left ass cheek as the
holder, Rich Ingram, patted my backside in support each time. I finally made one after I saw the play clock
expire. I didn’t think it would count so
I took a practice kick thinking there would be a penalty, but the refs gave me
a pity point. I’ll take it. There was even a fake field goal that nobody
told me about, so it was a scene straight out of Charlie Brown as the ball was
taken from my sight at the last second.
I learned I
didn’t want to be a kick that day. Coach
Schmidt would later tell me in an attempt to make me feel better…
“You have to have either ice in your veins or shit for
brains.”
I had neither. We made history that year by being the first
football team in their inaugural season to make the NCAA playoffs on any level. I was proud of that one-point contribution
from a guy that had never played before, yet disappointed I couldn’t do
more. Coach stuck up for me in the media
and I’ll never forget that. Not a single
one of us can say he never gave us a chance.
Eventually I was allowed to join
the DB’s as a last string corner for my senior year. I got my ass kicked every day and I loved it. Freshman thought I was a freshman due to my
stature and lack of knowledge and ability.
The first time I hit somebody, I was the last one to get up. I learned you’re not supposed to tackle with
your head down. I saw blinking stars and
my right shoulder sagged. The guys saw
my effort and started teaching me the game.
One day, coach wanted to toughen up the DB’s, so we lined up against the
“four horsemen.” I was looking face to
chest with Veney. He laid up for the
first hit.
“C’mon man! Hit me! It’s to make us both better.”
Veney just glared at me.
The next
time the whistle blew I was on my backside real quick as Veney helped me
up. He knew I wanted to get better and
as much as he didn’t want to beat me up, these tough matchups would help me
more than him. My whole body hurt the
entire season. I finally felt like I was
a part of the team and I may not have earned play time, but I earned a morsel
of respect. As the last game was played
and we gathered in the locker room. I
sat down to just take it all in. Veney
saw me get a little red eyed, walked across the locker room and gave me a hug,
along with all the other seniors.
“Alright Mat, alright.”
“Alright Veney.”
With
absolute pride and just knowing where I belong and don’t belong in this world,
I’ve never been a football player. Sure,
I was on the team and had great moments in those 3 years, but I never saw
myself as a “football player.” Instead,
after knowing those men and experiencing the comfort of my first taste of camaraderie… I was a fan.
I was a fan with the best seat in the house.
Much love to all my CNU football brothers!
