Early Days

A first draft written some years ago about a kids' journey into an unknown world pursuing an idea that he wanted to make a reality

The afternoons were always muggy, patches of dry grass and dirt comprised the terrain for our systematic training, clearly the result of “what was there” without much regard for taking the league seriously. The balls, even at their most advanced stages, were nothing more than inflated plastic or rubber. Because it was just the “local league,” there was hardly a thought as to whether any of us had real skill. Even if we did, most would not have given a second thought to whether that could develop that to an even bigger stage. Chris P, Chris M, Matt, Jorge, Omar, Alejandro, Ivan, Todd, Brian, Josh and I were among all the hobbits running around, making friends, staying active and out-of-trouble. We formed early friendships which turned into faded memories. We also learned that over-used, sometimes bullshit philosophy: “hard work.” We merely played our parts in making another season happen with all the smiles, frowns, jumps of joy and shameful walks like the munchkins before us.

          Professional and elite coaches from world-class, renowned Clubs never trained us to perfect our skills. We were not that important. Not at our level anyway. We only learned the basic skills and fundamentals by the dads whom volunteered to show us what they knew or how they, thought, knew it.

          Changing of speed and direction, dribbling, positions and passing, shooting and kicking ‘long balls’ were among the criteria on the syllabus in Fundamentals 101 of which we all became students. Matt, Jorge, Omar, Chris P, Josh and I all passed the basics and showed no difficulty in understanding what our two Coaches were getting us to do…how to be and act as a team. We became friends versus just teammates showing up and running. Athletes at the lowest possible stages and ranks, each of us showed our individual strengths and weaknesses, exposed quickly as youngsters.

          Our initial exams revealed the lads who possessed more endurance, speed, and creativity while playing. The Coaches seemed to like them instantly. Others stood our ground, showing the sheer determination never to let anyone push them around. Their brute mentalities and physical natures would come in handy as the days and weeks rolled together. And then some of us showed general abilities, not fully standing out here or there, just fulfilling the Coaches’ needs in fielding a team. It became obvious I was not among either of those groups.

          I was never at the front of any multiple lap drill-lines. I was not blessed with the most creativity when the ball was at my feet. In fact, I was almost always the guy who lagged at the end of most drills, unable to cope with the stamina. Not exactly born to the greatest running genes, it took me a while to adapt to the conditioning level required for our maroon and white colors. (Don’t get me wrong, I managed. I just never managed the greatest when the game asked for continuous fast-and-slow bursts of energy. That wasn’t me; my legs and lungs were not built for that.)

          However, so many practices and kicks highlighted the fact that my right foot had some “mmff” to it. Left leg and foot couldn’t contribute more than balance and the rarely-needed tap to save the ball and avoid an oncoming opponent. Soon enough, I found myself at right defense. (In fairness, Dad was Coach; he balanced the team based on need and talent.) Not too long thereafter, it became my own. My name wasn’t meant for weekend local headlines and records; it also meant I would likely not have the greatest of futures wearing the cheap-o cleats on Saturdays…or any day in today’s world. (Not all games are played anymore on “traditional” days�"it’s when television can best accommodate them, sadly.)

          No sir I was the kid who filled a spot and was quite good at it.

          And that’s where the rest of my drive for sport and competition unofficially conceived.

          With the team together for a few seasons, we had grown accustomed to who-played-where and what each of us could do. It was never like, “Jorge, you’re quick, tall, can score. Play forward. Oh and Matt, you seem to be a natural in Goal. Where’re your gloves? You’re our ‘Keeper.” Not exactly; kids were the last people you tell to their faces who was good and not, therefore playing them in certain spots. (By the way, both of those were true of the guys mentioned.) So when Coach pointed out who played where in that particular, “final” game of our ages, it was no surprise I stayed at defense.

          I wore the thick sport-glasses wrapping around the head, did not show the greatest athletic abilities and, perhaps most important, lacked the creativity to play without fear. I was a liability, somehow. Not as valuable to the team in attacking and scoring, I could contribute only so much. Even more than that, playing in the defense was the front-row view to “seeing” the action unfold before my very eyes. By definition, defenders never really controlled the ball other than clearing it away from our goal. Not only that, I was scared of physically challenging someone for the ball and having to hold my ground. That fear drove me to hinder from the initial attack or ball or lose my “cool” when confronted with a game-playing situation. Fear gripped me�"to the point where, if I did outmaneuver my adversary, I had no idea what to do ‘next’ because I was so used to not guiding the action or “pulling the strings.”

          Nevertheless, remaining in the back was the fuel for my comfort�"seeing the action versus doing it. I could watch the game, from that perspective, all I wanted. My overall involvement was…minimal at times.

It drove me to want to do more.

Long before our Spring Cup game, and during it (it was a moment, eh) whenever another teams’ player got past our guys only to approach us defenders, it gave birth to a hidden aggression; if he wasn’t, it would fuel a desire much graver. He, or they, became a threat. And when that young kid, or all of them, crossed the barrier from player to threat, a friendly game hobbits played and, mostly, walked away from, became something else.

Every time those players, that little guy, did what they “knew” how to do, it sparked the need to get rid of his presence by eliminating it. Normally, a kick of the ball would suffice and typically did. However, something inside me wasn’t satisfied with that.

          For I knew I had the natural kicking swing to merely eliminate the ball. Brain to muscle, foot to ball, smack to flight, it all connected to ensure that happened. That something else, though, was the real driving force within me. It just never had the chance to showcase itself. That is, until that threat became mine. It sparked what we call “competition,” two opponents challenging one another for superiority and the need to defeat them because they are a threat.

          Apart from technique and instinct to clear the game-potential danger, those other players sparked the competitor in me to burst out in aggressive-like play. It was then I realized it would, sometimes, take more than knocking the ball away to get rid of them. And that kind of primal rage was something I had to learn to control. Thankfully, I would…in a way.

         

          The more those threats presented themselves, the more that competitor in me erupted from inside my defensive-playing, non-athletic self. And it wasn’t just in games; it also came from practices when drills were run and the ball was stolen for various training exercises. Every time the other players avoided me or the other defenders and got that much closer to scoring on us, the ultimate insult, it only sparked the sheer need to do more. Weekly practices presented moments time and again when my more aggressive teammates took the ball away. My anger came out at the thought of being defeated, in that way. That aggressor was the “silent one” dwelling within a shy boy who appeared as this unconditionally loving child to his family.

          And so soon, the Spring Cup game of 1998, or somewhere around there, rolled around. A beautiful spring day in the local park, a more sublime setting could not have been more perfectly arranged. It was among the highlights of our young sporting lives for my teammates and me. We just didn’t know it. None of us did. Nothing about the actual game remains in me noggin (faded), except perhaps a stored-away piece of plastic. We played the game and won. My young friends, the Scorpions, took our, rightfully-earned, places in the long, long line of youth teams whom have come and gone.

 

The days and seasons rolled by thereafter. We found ourselves undertaking new seasons, ones of growing-up and joining the systematic routine, our every day and weekly gatherings morphing into occasional hellos. Each of us carved out new paths as we saw fit: some the athletic route, others the moving world of music, and others off the radar until they acted.

 

          It wasn’t until that mysterious world called “high school” did mine come to fruition.

Austin High was the staging point where my new season rolled into routine. Secretly, though, this season was “The Fellowship” journey of my quest, which began unraveling towards the latter stages of those ‘happy’ years.

          At that point, I’d not kicked a ball as regularly as the younger days. That didn’t worry me. Somehow that ability to merely kick the ball would never really leave, once it was learned. Like Chris, Matt, Jorge and the others, I’d spent enough years learning how to use technique and form to hit the ball and instinctively could pull it off.

          However, the journey itself took a surprising and, now useless, turn when joining the Marching Band and venturing into the “nerdy” world of High School Band. Everyday ventures into the world of thin teenagers playing ‘odd-sounding’ music, learning those marching formations and spending days among some of my best friends growing up all played their parts in helping me along that sometimes confusing road of teenage adolescence. And although those were happy enough of days, part of me never felt totally OK even participating in that branch of the high school world. The desire was not there. My heart yearned for something else, as if it never really saw the need for involvement in that walking and playing combination.

          Turns out, it did want something else. The weekends spent watching the Longhorns on TV sealed the deal for me. And it wasn’t just watching them, either. It went from watching them to study mode with the distinctive burnt-orange-and-white. Unlike the whole team aspect, I wasn’t merely watching men clobber each other, no. 

          His name was Dusty Mangum (pronounced Mag-num). He was the Kicker. And I was, I suppose, just venturing out of the HS Band days, which I’ll easily admit I didn’t feel bad (the Director wasn’t pleased; oh well, high school is about kids finding their own journeys, eh?). 

          So, in the early days of summer 2002, I did what had never even crossed my mind until then: joined high school athletics after leaving behind all those days with the Scorpions.

It left my parents in a brief state of shock, hearing their band-playing, thin and shy son suddenly tell them he wanted to do high school sports. (Frankly, it surprised a lot of people whom learned of it. It just didn’t really surprise me. It was only a day or two into summer marching camp that I chose my new path, so it was quite sudden.)

However, watching Dusty kick the extra points & field goals had its definitive influence when I told myself, I can (want) do that. I also recalled seeing the football players on the field and wanting to join them, having watched Dusty and all; marching didn’t seem entirely ideal.

So, like the hobbit I was at one time, I went outside like any kid inspired to want to play a sport like their heroes. After all, I’d seen, once again, how the action and technique was done on TV enough times to have a general idea of what to do and how to do it…as far as the kicking of the ball. Luckily, our front yard was thick and large enough to practice the stepping and swinging steps, over and over again. Our next door neighbor also had a front yard complete with largely-shaped trees and a thicket-looking bush. They became my impromptu field goal posts and “aiming” points for height, distance and accuracy.

Like in years past, a collegiate scout nor trainer did not come and show me what to do. I was never sent to a Kicking camp to learn the fundamentals. I just did what I’d seen and went with it. After all, I had a right leg with that swinging momentum, which came in handy.

          The fundamentals were a hint tricky to adjust to, as they required more than just kicking a ball from so many previous attempts. And though no one ever trained me how to properly kick footballs or field-goal kick, I instinctively learned how to do so from so many attempts at it in the front yard and our street�"happened to be a straight 50 yards. It became my unofficial training ground.

          So did the small weight bench we had. Granted I stood about five-eight, one-hundred-and-fifty pounds, I was nowhere near being the kicker I envisioned myself becoming. It was time to take this idea of mine and grow into it. Almost every day and night, it wasn’t merely about lifting the weights, adding to an already-small frame. It was about catching up after taking a long “vacation” from anything really athletic. And the catch-up time was by-the-day.

          What I was really doing, though, was turning an idea or goal into something real without thinking twice about it. (My brother even praised me for it in a Congratulations card-message, stating I “had the balls” to do what I wanted.)

          I can remember the first few days of Junior Varsity and Varsity two-a-days ranking among the hardest I’ve ever lived through. The waking up early didn’t bother me, in spite of the fact that I LOVED to sleep. Wearing the pads was a routine adjustment after a few days. Apart from the early jogging and conditioning of the Scorpions, though, this was a whole new level of workouts and conditioning of which I had absolutely no idea. Granted, all I really wanted to do was kick and be done with it. Of course, to do that meant train and be part of the team, which meant going through the drills and getting clobbered, as I’d seen on TV.

And the Varsity guys took a lot of fun out of smacking the daylights out of Mr. 150-pound rookie. I was their tackling dummy, and quite naturally so.

From then onwards, I had a newfound level of respect and knowledge for all those players (athletes) as I had an idea what they did…not easy stuff. However, I was getting closer, day-by-day, to becoming a Varsity member and Kicker.

Like most of the Scorpions days, the games I remember almost nothing about, except a lot of Saturday mornings, running, and the treats at halftime and after. Those JV days were much the same. Only the panoramic pictures remain of those days, and a paper vouching my participation…another semi-bullshit philosophy.

Then, senior year rolled around. Not by talent but automatic inclusion, the Varsity locker room was where my goal landed me, at least for the time. With the Varsity players, merely teammates playing together for a few years, now of the 18-year-old “senior” ranks, I was among the outsiders showing up to play, happy to say I wanted to be a Kicker. I still had a ways to go. The starting Kicker and his back-up, the Varsity starting goalkeeper, were daily reminders of where my place actually was. Though it bothered me, I’d been used to playing from the watching perspective, knowing the other players were better and that I had my place in the team. And thus it was.

Eric Lawrence, whom a few media personnel and scouts predicted would play or even start for a Division I-A or AA school somewhere, attended the Longhorns Kicking camp, or others out there, and thus was considered an All-District Kicker in each aspect�"Field Goals, Punts and Kick-Offs. He was that good. He had the form, strength and drive.

Chris Toman, a natural soccer player and the goalkeeper, was the back-up. He’d also been playing football for the Maroons, but only for about two years. He could hold his own in each aspect as well. He just wasn’t the typical jock most players were made out to be. And he was cooler because of it.

Then there was me. The unknown quantity showing up, pretending he was going to be the Kicker, let alone starting Kicker, for the Varsity squad, completely unaware of what he was getting himself into. It wasn’t just a reality check; it was a whole new world. All I knew how to do was what I’d done up to that point�"and hope for the best. Hope didn’t replace talent nor years of training, as I’d found out.

         

          Next thing I really knew, the mornings, afternoons, practices and stinky, odor-filled locker rooms became the usual summer settings. The smell of grass became a familiar whiff to absorb most mornings, along with clean or semi-soiled shirt-n-shorts underneath the pads and smooth-feeling football attire. The jar of plastic crunching against itself multiplied by a few dozen added to the morning soundtrack. And all those years of kicking a ball played a small part in finding new form and technique with the leather, oval shape and plastic stand. It became obvious to anyone bothering to pay attention to a small twig like myself that I had never truly kicked a football. I learned on-the-spot, thanks to watching Chris do his thing as my fellow JV kicker those first few days. He showed me the extreme basics when it came to approaching steps, placing the ball over the foot, swinging momentum and, most important, general confidence when entering a world unknown.

My clumsy, completely unaware persona highlighted its general lack of common-sense when bothering to ask Coach Bacak (Ba-chalk) what time it was that first morning of practice after about an hour of hitting. He said, “Come on, Javi, what’re you doing?! I’m busy here. Ask me later man,” he blasted to me as he was running other minnows through their paces. Until that point, I’d never done so much consistent hitting and workouts of that nature. Like I said, you’d never find me at the front of the running line with my teammates. Only, these practices were far more than running lines.

Those new, unfamiliar feelings wiped away and all regular comforts I felt as that little kid wearing those thick glasses and cheap cleats.

For I’d entered the world of high school football, in Austin and in Texas, where the helmet and cleats were standard and made everyone look forward to school’s season starting up. My choice led me to a new life, one where I didn’t have to worry about my adversary running my way, potentially becoming a threat with a ball at his feet. I unconsciously traded those weekend dilemmas for the much more seriously-taken gridiron glory. Those practices gave way to the gap that was a few years between the Scorpions now long-gone and the introduction of Austin High Maroon Football.

My adversaries were not exactly guys with balls at their feet. They just wanted to smack the crap out of me because that’s what they were “suppose” to do. And being a kicker, it didn’t help much being as scrawny as I was. It only encouraged the others to break me more, pay my dues and earn my spot among the unknowns.

 

And that’s how it went that first season of trial-and-error. Gradually, I got the rhythm and technique down more and more with each kick, never losing sight of why I joined up in the first place. Still watching Dusty on the weekends and hitting that small bench outside the HS weight room, the drills, hits and shouting from Coaches and other players alike became usual sounds which, somehow, seemed completely irrelevant to me. Intimidation or not, it all seemed like shadows of inspiration for young guys to push themselves to excel. All those mornings and evenings sweating our asses off and having ‘fun’ playing a game always came across as the odd way to motivate and inspire young guys to “work hard.”

Then came Varsity year, where everything remained the same except I felt more excitement about getting that much closer, inch-by-inch, towards doing what Dusty did.

Instead of practicing on the side-fields, I’d been promoted to playing alongside the Varsity guys and moved into the Varsity locker room. It was surreal but, at the same time, made no huge difference in my mind. The craze given to high school sports, particularly of the Varsity squad(s), was something very normal all across Texas.

Author's Note

I have some editing to do here. But this is what was initially written several years ago.