Chapter 3

His given name was actually Edmond Bellows. Most members of Petros’ High School football team were not aware of that.

The team, along with most of the community, knew him as Coach Stub or just Stub. Nobody had called him Edmond in years, not that Stub minded. He never liked that name. As was his normal routine in the morning, Stub was brewing a pot of coffee and whistling Petros’ school song.

He was a short and squat man with a perpetual smile. It tended to irritate others that everything could be going you-know-where in a handbasket and Stub would be smiling, whistling and acting like he was having the time of his life.

If anybody asked, Stub would say he was five-foot-ten. But the only way he ever hit that mark was by wearing padded shoes and standing on his tip-toes. He still looked thick throughout his body, a little soft around the belly but otherwise not much different than when Stub wore the Petros Panther uniform many years ago.

His hair was cut nearly to the scalp, a practice Stub always employed this time of the year, one of the many tricks he used to try and stay cool. Stub had shaved before coming to the gym, but already looked a razor had not touched his face in days. His body was covered with hair, bad enough that it bugged a lot of people.

Partly because of the hair and his metabolism, Stub sweated like a wild man. It could be pleasant weather and he could sit in the shade, but his body would glisten with sweat in seconds.

He scooted around like a waitress in a busy restaurant. His bushy eyebrows needed a trimming to go with his haircut, but Stub usually just wet them down with a little spit when they got too unruly.

His little short legs looked like a pair of trees stumps perched upon a pair of feet that barely qualified for a size eight. At one time, he ran like the wind, but that was a good twenty years ago. Now, if he was forced to run across a football field, there better be some oxygen available and a bunch of towels to soak up the sweat.

Stub loved people, always had, and seldom met a person he didn’t like. He had the kind of personality that would have made him an excellent salesman. But he loved sports and liked nothing better than being in a game or practice, either in football or baseball, where he was the assistant coach to Cole.

The only time he wasn’t happy was when one of his linemen missed a block or blew an assignment. Stub wasn’t the type to have a screaming fit, but his looks and little comments hurt more than getting hollered at. The linemen knew their coach never missed it when they missed a block or did not put out enough effort. The film sessions early in the week could be extremely painful as the play was shown several times, all the players getting to see who messed up and why.

There were three desks in the small office. It was not in the best place, located in the basement of the gymnasium at the back of the locker room. Seated behind one of the desks with his big feet perched atop the desk was Leroy Crane, the third varsity coach for Petros’ football team.

Most people called him “Ichabod”, even Cole and Stub. The boys knew of the nickname, of course, and most had made the mistake of saying something the name in his presence once. But that one time was usually enough to teach them not to repeat the mistake as most teenage boys don’t like getting up at the crack of dawn and running the bleachers in the gym until it was time for school to start.

He was a tall, angular man, so skinny most people wondered how he kept from getting blown away when one of those hard Oklahoma winds blew in from the plains. Ichabod had a stern look to him. His long nose angled down over his upper lip, as did his thick strand of nose hairs. He had narrow slits for his eyes and a small mouth that barely opened even while talking. His thick glasses couldn’t handle the slope of the nose and frequently slid down, forcing him to readjust them every few minutes.

Ichabod’s ears looked like small satellite receivers. His hair was still as black as when he was a child. Some believed this was the Indian in him. Others thought his hair maintained this color thanks to a little help from some anti-graying hair formula he supposedly buys at Wal-Mart late at night.

His choice of clothing appeared to be out of the fifties. His shirts were older than most of the boys on the team. The same slacks and shorts were the same ones he wore way back when he started coaching, one year after Cole took over at Petros. It was not a pretty sight to see Ichabod in shorts. His legs were long, skinny and boney and featured the longest hairs anybody had ever seen on a person. He topped off this look by wearing long white socks that usually came close to his knees.

He had on the usual pair of black shoes that some people said could double for skies. Ichabod wore these shoes everywhere, except to church. Ichabod usually wore button-down golf shirts, always opened all the way, letting his thick mass of chest hairs, also black, stick out of the opening at the top.

Cole didn’t know if he had the best group of assistants in the state, but doubted any other coach was blessed with hairier assistants.

Ichabod was the defensive coordinator and assistant basketball coach. He was also the disclipinarian of the coaching staff. Nobody wanted to feel the wrath of Ichabod, knowing he was quite capable of handing out punishment if a player screwed up. The crime usually resulted in running the bleachers or feeling the sting of an old wooden paddle, with about a dozen holes drilled into it to reduce drag while swinging, for maximum effect.

It took a while for most people to realize, but Ichabod was not that bad of a person. He was a little different, but most people usually adjusted to him. But when he stared at one of his players through those thick glasses perched at the end of his nose with the blood vessels on his forehead flaring, it could make a grown man quiver.

Still, the kids would do anything for him. While they knew all the coaches would help, Ichabod was the man to see. He was a pain when you screwed up, but a blessing if any of the boys needed something, other than how to dress.

On one wall of the office were pictures of all the teams Cole had coached since coming to Petros. All his former players were there, many in several pictures. Cole’s desk was the closest to the door. The other two were to the sides, facing each other.

There was a small refrigerator on the wall next to Ichabod, filled with various sports drinks and a few sodas. There used to be cans of smokeless tobacco in there, always guarded carefully by the two assistants until they gave it up a few years ago, realizing how much money they were wasting and how it was rotting their teeth and gums.

At the end of the room, there was an old couch that a coach had been known to sneak a nap on. Directly in front of the couch was a television on top of a moveable stand. There was a VCR on a tray under the television, along with several tapes not yet returned to their rightful place.

A window air conditioner was above the couch, humming away and doing its best to cool the office. The unit was at least fifteen years old and only had enough power to cool a room half this size. So it was usually fairly warm in the dungeon, which is what the coaches called their office.

They tried to compensate by having some fans located around the office to generate some air, but they usually just scattered hot air and blew papers off the desks.

Cole looked over at his two assistants, feeling lucky to have such good help. Most of the other schools Petros played had five or six varsity coaches. Cole knew that if it was that important, he could get more coaches. But he was satisfied with his assistants and did not see any reason to change.

He watched Stub speed around the room, his little feet scurrying about. Because of his personality, Stub was the one who picked the players up when they were down. He didn’t look like it or sound like it, but Stub knew his stuff and got it across to the kids as well as any other coach Cole had been around.

For Stub and Ichabod, both single men who had never found the right woman, sports at Petros High School were high on their personal totem poles. The only thing they put more emphasis on was their church, where they were deacons and Sunday School teachers along with Cole.

They actually put in more hours than Cole, watching film, scouting and coaching the junior high and junior varsity teams.

Cole knew how fortunate he was to have them, knowing he never had to worry about them causing problems or being irresponsible. Both assistants had been offered other jobs over the years and turned them down, doubting the grass was greener on the other side of the fence.

It was no surprise the assistants were the first ones to arrive for practice. They would also be the last to leave.

Before practice, they would load up on some coffee and read the sports sections in the newspapers. Both major newspapers, the Tulsa World and Daily Oklahoman, were delivered to the school and one of the coaches always borrowed the sports and brought it to the dungeon. Ichabod always clipped and filed any information about future opponents, especially the other district teams. The school also had subscriptions to the newspapers in all the towns Petros played. Ichabod also gathered this information, hoping to find some little tidbit that might help.

The two assistants were as close as any two men could be. They were comfortable together, spending so much time with each other that they could practically be brothers, except they did not argue as much as most brothers.

There was only one major problem between Ichabod and Stub. They were the best of friends except one week during the year, the week when Oklahoma played Oklahoma State in football.

Stub was a Cowboy. Ichabod was a Sooner. Unlike many others in the state, they both respected the other school and hoped the other team won, except when they played each other.

Stub got an extra cup of coffee and handed it to Ichabod, who had his nose buried in the Daily Oklahoman..

“See anything good, Ichabod?” he asked.

“Not yet, Stub,” Ichabod said with a hint of irritation. He hated to be bothered while reading the newspaper. Stub knew that, one of the reasons why he always asked his fellow assistants questions while Ichabod was reading.

Ichabod looked more like a funeral home director than a defensive coordinator, but there were few better. He knew all the tricks. Nobody took it harder than Ichabod when his defense allowed an opponent to score. It was almost like a personal assault.

His philosophy on defense was pretty much the same as Cole’s. Keep it simple, which probably helped it be more effective. He wanted to stop the run and force the pass. The Panthers usually crowded the line most of the time with a four-three defense, except on obvious passing downs.

Ichabod played the basic defense as long as he got by with it. But if the other team started moving the ball or the Panthers needed a big play, Ichabod turned the heat on. He loved to blitz and did so more than most coaches.

It was a defense much like a basketball team that used a full-court press. He loved for the Panthers to attack, hoping to make big plays or force turnovers.

Cole did not know any other team that forced as many turnovers or scored as many points as Ichabod’s guys. It had not happened as much over the last couple of years, but that was because of the lack of talent, not the coaching.

Ichabod helped with the ends on offense. While he did a good job, Ichabod did not put as much emphasis on that part of his duties. He was a defensive guy, loving the challenge of trying to stop another team’s offense.

He viewed it like a chess match, matching wits against the opposing offensive coordinator. Like Cole, Ichabod expected to have a good defense this year, if the Panthers avoided injuries.

With so many starters back and several good players to choose from to fill the vacant spots, Ichabod had been looking forward to getting started all summer.

Petros had its version of the Blackshirt defense, like the University of Nebraska. If a player was a starter on defense, they wore a black shirt during the defensive part of practice. All the other players wore white shirts. Once a player got to wear a black shirt, they did not want to give it up. It had that kind of effect on the players, knowing the tradition and all the good players who wore the Blackshirts before them. If Ichabod did not feel a player was giving enough effort, a threat to remove the shirt usually remedied the problem.

“Y’all ready?” Stub asked.

“Yep,” Cole responded. “I just hope there aren’t any bad surprises.”

He meant no players showing up with injuries, guys moving off without telling the coaches or choosing not to play because they had to work or the latest girlfriend didn’t want them to play. All this had happened many times before, even at Petros where sports were so important.

“Boy, I still love the first day of practice,” Stub mentioned. “That feeling…that everything is new. You got the dew on the grass and for the only time all year all the practice stuff is clean and doesn’t smell like…”

“Your breath in the morning?” Ichabod suggested, without looking up from his newspaper.

They started ragging each other but realized playtime was over. Cole had walked to the center of the office and motioned for them to join him. They came together, each holding the hand of the other coaches.

As usual, Cole led the prayer.

“Father, we thank you for all you have done for us and that you are doing for us,” he said, speaking softly. “Lord, we give you all the praise and glory. Please let us do your will today and watch over our boys and keep them from injury. We ask that you please guide us to do the right things and to make the right decisions. We love you Father and can never thank you enough. We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

They all said their amens. They stood there for a few more seconds, waiting to see if anybody else had something to say.

Seeing that everybody was okay, the three coaches went to their desk and sat down.

“You guys ready?” Cole asked, knowing it was almost time for practice to start.

Both assistants nodded. They had been through this many times before but were still nervous.

“We gotta be really positive today,” Cole stressed. “The boys need to be told how good they are and get their confidence back. We aren’t used to losing as many games as we have the last two years and the boys have been hearing about it all summer, just like we have.

“I’m hoping that’ll make them that much more determined to have a better team, but you can’t ever tell.”

“I sure hope everybody shows up,” said Stub. “We got the chance to be good if Ichabod doesn’t mess up the defense.”

“You don’t have to worry about my defense,” Ichabod countered. “The Blackshirts will hold their own.”

“Our defense was okay last year,” Cole reminded. “Our offense just didn’t hold up its end and the defense was on the field the whole game. Our offense is gonna have to keep the ball and make some first downs.”

Other than three plays and out for the opponent, the one thing Cole liked better was seeing his offense go on a long drive that ate up seven or eight minutes off the clock. He liked the quick scores also, but enjoyed watching those long sustained drives where the offense racked up three or four yards a play, kept moving the chains and capped it off with a touchdown.

Those were the kind of drives that wore out an opponent and demoralized them. His two teams that reached the state finals played like that. His best team reached the state finals with only one loss before falling to a great Anson team, 10-7. None of Cole’s teams had brought home the gold ball signifying a state championship yet, but that group came the closest.

The Panthers were like a machine that year, cranking out long drives practically every time they had the ball. The defense was excellent also, but played less than any team Cole had coached. Petros averaged 35 points a game that year, only allowing an average of four. There were a couple of blowouts, but most games ended up with a score of 28 or 35 to zero.

That team, like most of his others, had not been all that big, but was by far the most physical, pounding other teams to a pulp. Those guys were tough, strong and quick, never shying away from anybody. Until the state finals, Petros’ only loss was to Hodgen, 16-14.

That was the closest one of Cole’s teams came to beating the Bulldogs, losing on a long pass play in the final minute. But the Panthers had even pounded the bigger Hodgen team, delivering a beating the Bulldogs never recovered from that year.

Cole wanted other teams molded in that fashion, but had not found one yet. He’d had other teams come close, including the other team that reached the state finals led by his oldest son, Lloyd, but none reached that plateau.

The quarterback on his best team was Tatum Sloan, probably the best leader Cole had coached. Tatum was also the best player to ever wear the black and white of Petros. He was a junior when Petros went to state and the main reason that team was so good and the following year’s team was also good.

Tatum’s team as a senior was the best offensive team Cole had coached, a team that was his most explosive, averaging over 40 points a game.

The Panthers rolled into the semifinals again, losing only one game, again to Hodgen. Just before kickoff, Petros found out Anson was beaten in the other semifinals by Rolling Spring, a team the Panthers defeated by over thirty points earlier in the season.

In the semifinal game, Petros was in control of the contest early in the second quarter when Tatum tore up his knee. That turned the game around and the Panthers lost, 22-20. Cole knew Petros had the best team in its class that year and wanted to beat Anson, but the Panthers did not get the chance.

Tatum missed basketball because of his knee but returned for baseball. He was slowed by the knee surgery, but with Cole’s help got a scholarship to Northeastern in Tahlequah, the same school Cole attended. Tatum stared two years at quarterback on a team that won two conference championships, beating out two transfers who originally signed with major colleges but left because of grades.

After college, Tatum made a decision that shocked everybody. Cole had other players become doctors, teachers, preachers and pretty much anything else that was out there. Tatum could have succeeded in any of those areas but decided to coach. Cole had never been prouder of one of his boys than when Tatum’s team won the Class A state championship three years earlier.

The only negative was that his effort made Tatum a hot coach and he moved up to a Class 2A job at a school in the western part of the state. He took a program that had not been to the playoffs in two years and helped them get into the playoffs both years, actually reaching the quarterfinals the previous year.

Tatum didn’t really care for that part of the state, preferring the trees and forests of southeastern Oklahoma. Earlier in the summer, Tatum accepted the head job at Big Cedar, a district opponent of Petros’. Big Cedar was a school that always had great talent, but struggled because of so-so coaching.

Petros would play Big Cedar in the eighth game of the year, a game Cole would dread until it was over.

Footsteps in the hallway signaled the arrival of the first players.

“Well, here they come,” Stub advised.

“I say forty-two,” suggested Ichabod.

“Forty,” Cole injected.

“I got forty-five,” added Stub. “Loser’s gotta buy lunch at the Cafe.”

Ichabod hit the nail on the head. There were forty-two players at the first practice, a smaller number than usual. Petros usually had 45-50 players on the team, but after a bad season, it was to be expected.

The breakdown was sixteen seniors, ten juniors and sixteen sophomores. Cole and the coaches counted the players after walking out on the practice field. As he watched the final players arrive on the field, Cole was pleased with how they looked. He had a good senior class, an average junior class and a sophomore group that should be excellent.

The Panthers were dressed in white shirts, black shorts and white helmets. They couldn’t dress out in full pads until later in the week so this practice was mainly for teaching and conditioning.

He noticed a tall boy standing off to the side, dressed in baggy red shorts and a blue tee-shirt advertising a concert tour for some band Cole never heard of. The boy had to be at least six-foot four, with blonde hair longer than most boys favored. His frame was of average size, looking like a basketball player.

Cole walked over to meet him and looked at the boy’s shoes, noticing the basketball shoes showed signs of use. He figured the boy must be sixteen or seventeen, and appeared to be a little nervous.

“How’re you?” Cole asked, holding out his hand. “My name’s Coach Lester.”

“Glad to meet you,” the boy answered, returning the shake. “I’m Andy Tolbert. My family just moved to Petros”

“Glad to hear that. What grade are you in?”

“I’ll be a sophomore.”

“Plan on coming out for football?”

“I’d like to,” Andy stated. “I was afraid it was too late.”

“Nope, this is our first practice.”

As he stood beside Andy, Cole decided the boy was almost six-foot-five. He had no idea if the boy could help in football, but sure hoped Andy could play basketball. Petros just did not get players with that kind of height often.

It had been years since his basketball team was blessed with any height and Cole was tired of getting pounded on the boards.

“Have you taken your physical yet?” Cole asked.

“No sir,” Andy answered.

“You’ll have to get a physical before you can practice but you’re more than welcome to watch. Then we’ll get you the form you need and make arrangements with Doc Hardy to get you set up.”

“Thanks, that sounds great.”

“Come over here and let me introduce you to the other coaches.”

Cole and Andy walked to where Stub and Ichabod stood, watching the players stretch. He introduced his newest player, enjoying Ichabod’s reaction.

“Play basketball?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” Andy responded. “That’s probably my favorite sport. The school I came from didn’t play football, just basketball.”

Ichabod tried to hide it, but his excitement was evident.

“Where’d you come from?” Stub asked.

“A little school outside of Tulsa.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” he added, patted Andy on the arm and walked away to get on a couple of players goofing off.

Andy drifted away, trying to stay out of the way. Several players watched him walk away, wondering who he was.

Stub straightened out the two players and moved back beside Ichabod, trying to find out where his fellow assistant caught a five-pound bass on Friday.

Before he asked, a car door slammed in the parking lot. Stub looked in that direction and after seeing who was headed their way, tapped Ichabod to get his attention.

“Coach’s best buddy is here,” he advised.

Ichabod turned to look in that direction and smiled.

Walking toward them, waving and smiling was a large round man in his mid-20’s. He wore a white baseball hat with a black “P” on the front, along with a white tee-shirt with “Petros Football” written across the front. His black shorts were a little tight, causing his rather substantial belly to hang over the shorts. His shirt was not long enough and a strip of the belly was evident every other step. This was not really a pretty sight for seven in the morning.

He topped off his ensemble with a pair of black socks stretched almost to his knees and a pair of white, high-top basketball shoes. The walk from the parking lot took its toll on him and Jack Peters was already breathing heavily and sweating by the time he reached the practice field, actually the outfield of the baseball field.

Ichabod and Stub pretended not to notice him walking toward them.

“Cole, your best buddy is here,” Stub mentioned.

Cole turned to see who Stub was talking about, but already had a good idea

“Hello, Jack,” Cole stated.

“I was just about late,” the man answered, breathing heavily from the fifty-yard walk.

“How’s it going, Scoop?” Ichabod asked.

Scoop smiled broadly and nodded. He was not overly fond of the nickname, but it sure beat what a lot of people called him before the coaches stopped it. Plus, since he worked for the newspaper, the name did sort of fit.

Of all the people who followed Petros athletics, Scoop was easily the biggest, and not just in waist size. He seldom missed a practice and had not missed a game in five years, not since his father passed away. Scoop didn’t want to miss that one but the coaches convinced him the funeral was more important. Scoop would go anywhere to be with his Panthers and chronicle their exploits in the Petros Weekly Journal, where he served as sports reporter.

He was like many writers at small weekly newspapers, a homer in every way and shape, bragging about the Panthers and openly cheering. Scoop wasn’t a particularly talented writer, the main reason why he still worked at the Journal, but was enthusiastic and determined.

Scoop did not get paid much, but couldn’t get another job because it might interfere with his covering Petros’ athletics. He volunteered for several years before Old Man Raney, the newspaper’s owner, gave in and started paying him a meager salary.

But since Scoop still lived with his mother and she was reasonably well off, it was fine with him and he never worried where his next meal was coming from, an important consideration for a person his size and with his appetite.

Getting paid to write about Petros sports made him happy. That was another important concern for everybody who knew him. The second tumor was removed from near the base of Scoop’s brain over the summer and the doctors were afraid that wasn’t the end. Once cancer got a hold, sometimes it just did not matter how much radiation was piped in, it was tough to beat. Everybody knew Scoop was still sick and had been ill practically his whole life.

Many people said the only luck Scoop had was of the bad variety, but never to his face.

“How’s the old noggin?” Stub asked.

“Great!” Scoop responded, already wanting to change the subject. It had only been a couple of months since his last operation and he was tired of talking about it. “Boy, I’m ready for football to start!”

There was such an eagerness about it the three men could only smile. Scoop could be a pain at times, always wanting to talk about the Panthers and asking some really silly questions. But they also knew if he did not have such an interest in the teams, there was a good chance he might not be alive.

“Boy, our guys look good!” Scoop commented. “I really do think we’ll be better this year!”

“That makes me feel better,” Stub spoke. “We were thinking about canceling all our games but since you think we’ll be better, I guess we can play them.”

Scoop looked at Stub for a second, wishing for a clever reply but unable to come up with one.

He opened his reporter’s notebook the coaches had bought him last year and pulled a pen out of his pocket.

“Boy, Lucky sure has grown!” he mentioned.

Cole nodded, pleased Scoop was still perceptive enough to realize this. Lucky was on the far side of the field, playing catch with Gary Bell. Cole thought his son looked like he was all arms and legs, towering several inches above Gary.

As he watched the two play catch, Cole saw it didn’t matter how many passes Gary threw, they had a slight wobble and Lucky had to move a little each time to catch them. Lucky’s passes were tight spirals that flew straight and true. He learned to throw a football early and from the time his hands were big enough to grip the ball, Lucky threw a pretty pass.

“You can tell the boys worked awful hard on the weights this summer,” Scoop commented. He was hoping to get a few comments for his story but knew Cole probably would not give him anything until after practice.

“Yep,” Cole agreed, looking at the young man who first introduced himself as a seventh grader, asking if he could keep stats for the Panthers. He would have rather played, but was not gifted athletically and his medical problems prevented it.

Scoop had been a whiz from the start, always getting things exactly right and showing a determination to help in every way possible.

He continued keeping stats in all three sports through high school. The highlight of his life came when Cole gave him a football jacket at the all-sport banquet during Scoop’s senior year. He still wore the black and white jacket when the weather started cooling off. It was starting to get a little frayed, not that Scoop cared.

Stub hid it from him once as a joke. Scoop panicked so badly everybody thought he was going into convulsions. He ran around, flailing his arms, slinging snot and slobber everywhere, asking everybody if they had seen his jacket. Stub felt so bad after seeing Scoop’s reaction that he bought lunch for a week.

Cole got on to Stub after that episode, even though he knew his assistant would never repeat that stunt. Stub realized quickly you might mess with Scoop, but not with his jacket.

It could be seventy degrees out, but Scoop would wear his jacket while pacing the sidelines, keeping track of stats and cheering loudly before and after every play.

“Thanks for coming to practice,” Cole said, patting him on the back. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk afterwards, okay?”

Cole was the only person who usually did not call him “Scoop”, feeling that was some kind of slight. His parents didn’t name him “Scoop”, so Cole did not believe anybody had the right to call him something different.

Scoop smiled, putting away his little notebook while walking toward the old oak tree behind third base. His green lawn chair was there and Scoop would sit in it during practice, the only movement coming when he changed positions to stay in the shade.

Practice was fixing to start and for Scoop, life was good.

Chapter 4