2-4-3

Wibaux at Drummond 2004 Playoffs.

I'm not going to Wibaux this year for the trilogy; that is, the rematch with Drummond in the semi-finals.

All week long I've been telling people and myself that I'm just too tired from last week's trip to Sunburst, and its 900-plus-miles of driving. That excuse is probably good enough.

But, laying in bed this morning, I started thinking about the game. In fact, I even felt this tug that said, "Get up early Saturday morning anyway, and just go to Wibaux. Go on."

I tried to picture what I'd photograph once I arrived. I was rolling around in my mind what could be visually different than last year's blockbuster at Wibaux. I could see myself up on the hill—not the sidelines—by the statue of Pierre Wibaux watching from a distance. Like a little kid at a horror movie for the first time watching with my eyes half covered by my hands and wincing the entire time.

Wibaux and Drummond are two great football programs—traditions some might say. Who could argue the claim? I think of them as iconic in their own unique style.

I saw the first match-up at Drummond in 2004 where, what seemed to be, an over-confident Wibaux team walked off the bus to the gridiron like Roman soldiers about to capture another unsuspecting, miniscule chunk of distant land. Drummond was a machine, but even with one state title under their belt from the previous year, there was a feeling that many folks around the state believed they still hadn't been truly tested—that is the Wibaux test. We know what happened that day.

Then last year, I watched the same two teams who clearly held mutual respect for one another battle it out again in Wibaux. Many expressed that Drummond wasn't as invincible as previous years, but still had a long string of consecutive victories on their resume. Wibaux only had a score to settle.

I suppose it's safe to say that both Wibaux and Drummond know how unbearably long the bus drive is between the two opposing towns, especially after the game has concluded.

On one hand I hate to see Drummond make that same drive home from Wibaux as they did last year, but I know Wibaux duplicated the same drive a week later after their state title loss in overtime at Centerville. I know, it's all part of the game.

On the other hand, Wibaux has been teased enough since their last title in 2001. You'd think they'd never won one at all—reminiscent of the Cubs in baseball. Yet, they're due because they keep coming back year after year no matter who graduates.

As a neutral observer for most of the games I attend, I neither drive away from any gridiron feeling elated or dejected regarding the game's outcome. My formula for elation and dejection is related to whatever images I come away with that day; multiplied by the mileage. Yet, there are those teams like Drummond and Wibaux that I've seen play enough times that it's difficult to not wish them the best. And when they play each other in their little corners of Montana, it's always bittersweet, emotionally draining... simply exhausting.

I'm going to regret not going—I just know it.

Absarokee Euphoria

Stanford at Absarokee

Another beautiful autumn day in Montana and another superb example of small town high school football—this time in Absarokee.

I queried the people at the gate about how I would go about getting up on top of the foothills nearby that overlooked the gridiron. One of the Absarokee coaches informed me about the property owners that I would have to speak with first. Right there on the sidelines, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called someone who knew the landowner's home number—Chris. Then, he called Chris directly for me. "Absolutely," came the answer from the other end of the connection.

I walked up the long driveway from the highway. Chris' 83-year-old father, Grant, was waiting for me near the house and offered me a ride on the ATV to the bottom of the foothills where the bridge crossed the Rosebud River.

With a least four cameras in my possession, I never thought to photograph Grant sitting on the ATV or standing on the bridge that passed over the river—a true Homer Simpson moment on my part. Nevertheless, we chatted all the way to the bridge as I held on, my legs dangling over the side of the ATV. Four deer grazing in the meadow gawked as we slowly rumbled down the path. We could have gone on for miles and I wouldn't have objected.

The game lived up to my expectations. An eight-man football nail-biter. Stanford roared out to a 22-6 lead. The margin was reduced to 22-12 at the half. And with momentum building early in the third quarter, Absarokee took the lead for the first time. Shortly after Stanford regrouped to take back the lead. And as the final minutes ticked off the clock, the Huskies of Absarokee marched down the field destined to tie the game it seemed and possibly win if they made the conversion. But it wasn't to be. A deflected pass, resulting in an interception that went unchallenged for a touchdown.

Unforgettable perhaps.

Overlooking Absarokee gridiron.

But what I'll never forget were the few, but pristine moments of solitude I experienced while walking down from the foothills. It was like a dream. I passed along the tree-line path that followed the Rosebud River and its cold water from springs and run-offs in the nearby Beartooth Mountains. And up ahead... was it possible… the sound of high school football just out of my sight? I considered those out of body experiences that we hear about when the world becomes rather surreal. Could I have died?

Again, it was like a dream.

Just Shy of 49

“Best seats in the house” at Sunburst.

It was 966 miles and two new small town football venues in one road trip. Although I hadn't been on the road every weekend this year, this particular outing to Rudyard and Sunburst made up for the idle weekends earlier in the season. It's a life... sometimes hard.

Few people beyond my immediate family have ever joined me in the past on these football excursions, but my friend Ken (a.k.a. Slim Hardtack) tagged along for a trip that found us only eight miles shy of the 49th Parallel (the Canadian border for those folk who are geographically challenged on North America). I felt a bit cheated having come so close to Canada and not actually crossing into the land of the frozen tundra. Nevertheless, a couple years ago I did just that when attending a game in Eureka, but that's another story for another time.

At 65-years-old, Slim doesn't move quite as fast as... oh, let's say a spry 47-year-old youth like myself, so I knew if timing became an issue, I couldn't hold him too accountable. As it turned out, I had my own issues as I forgot to pack my tent and sleeping pad and after about six miles beyond Powell's city limits, we turned around to retrieve my gear.

Camping somewhere near Fort Benton was the plan drawn up a few days before our departure, but by the time we pulled into Harlowton, the day's light was waning quickly. We pitched camp at the community fairgrounds and sat down at our picnic table with a big bowl of navy bean soup including side orders of wheat thins, tinned oysters and sour cream. The cold drew down on the meal, but the soup stayed hot and later on, clouds formed overhead to seal in what was left of any remaining warmth from the day, resulting in a morning that was quite bearable for mid-October.

• • •

After morning coffee, it was onward to Eddie's Corner with a small time-out at the Judith Gap wind farm. We stepped out of our rig to hear the hush of the egantic machines. (I'm introducing the word "egantic" today as an alternative to the world "ginormous" which was recently added to Webster's Dictionary). We contemplated how some have come to resent such a hopeful looking operation where cost-effective, cows, power, barb wire, symmetry, clean, and wheat farmers all come together. Past the wind farm, the tiny town of Judith Gap and Eddie's Corner, we stopped for petrol in Stanford and then by-passing Geraldine, Fort Benton and finally arriving in Chester on the famous Hi-Line.

Coyote over Chester, Montana.

I wanted to see if the coyote sculpture was still sitting on top of the high school at Chester. I was pleased to see it still poised in its howling position despite the name change of the school a couple of years ago which included a new mascot—the Hi-Line Hawks. Less than a half hour later we were driving into Rudyard with plenty of time to spare before the game—taking in the modest community attractions that include a movie house and automobile museum.

In past years I'd seen North Star (once known as Blue Sky-KG... yet another school with a former identity) when they were on the road at Hays and West Yellowstone, but this was the first time I'd been to Rudyard. It's probably one of the few gridirons over 300 miles away that I didn't attempt to acquire some kind of description before attending. Something always seemed magical about the place when I looked at it on the the map—so far and way up north. Perhaps the play of their impressive 1999 state championship six-man team lingered in my mind as well.

I wasn't disappointed in finding the North Star football field and it's simplistic, on-the-edge-of-town setting. However, over the years I've learned to be careful to classify any given football field as a desirable location until it is actually occupied with fans and other components of a football contest. And sure enough, as things were shaping up at North Star, the ambulance rolled in and parked itself on the northeast corner of the field blocking a considerable portion of my "clean" shot in that direction. So distraught by this violation of gridiron feng shui, I actually queried the two medics of the vehicle to see if there was an alternate location for the big blue and white box on wheels. I hope they didn't see me as some self-loving shooter from a big town making some ridiculous demand. Regardless, my request was denied.

The Knights of North Star.

Like so many small town high school football games, everyone from the community seemed to be in attendance. Despite the unfavorable outcome for the Knights of North Star in their last home game of the regular season, I never heard anyone diss the team or coach except one player who second guessed a play near the game's end.

Kick-off for the North Star/Augusta game was 1:00 p.m. and ended just after 2:30 p.m. The condensed time frame was the combination of six-man play's 10-minute quarters and a running clock in the second half due to a lopsided score. This gave us plenty of time to make our way to Sunburst, but not before a layover in Shelby, Montana.

• • •

I normally don't plug anyone's business in this blog, but I'm happy to shamelessly endorse the Sherlock Motel and its owner Mark Wilson. This guy knows Montana. I wish we could have stayed longer in Shelby if only to visit with Mark.

• • •

High ground at Sunburst.

Like a crown sitting on royalty's head, that's where you'll find the football field in Sunburst. The only thing held higher (literally) in the community of 415 is its water tank. And so, what a great place to watch a football game... with the town below and the Sweetgrass Hills off in the distance. It's places like Sunburst and its surrounding scenery where floodlights should be prohibited! I'd like to propose a football schedule to the Sunburst town council or school board that has the last two home football games playing out on Saturday afternoon instead of Friday night.

Speaking of rescheduling games, it was homecoming weekend in Sunburst and that meant the main event was Saturday night instead of Friday night. Had I not called the school a week earlier to confirm the game time, I would have been standing around in Sunburst on a Friday night feeling really stupid when someone told me the game was the following night instead. My advice is simple: when driving over 200 miles for a small town high school football game, always call ahead to confirm the event's location, date and time.

Earlier when we stopped at Eddie's corner, I had purchased a Great Falls Tribune newspaper and read the scores in disbelief... from night before, Twin Bridges over Drummond and Absarokee defeats Park City. Earlier in the season Ekalaka had finally downed Wibaux. The stars of Class C eight-man football in Montana had realigned it seemed. I wondered if the same gods would be spinning their magic this close to Canada resulting in another change of the guard for the northern conference. As part of the homecoming festivities, the middle school football teams of Sunburst and Centerville were playing a late afternoon game and in the remaining hour of sunlight, Sunburst came away the victor. Surely many others in attendance like myself considered this an omen of what was to come in the main event.

Well, some would say that three out of four ain't bad.

What's a good football team to do? Simply put, the defending state champs from Centerville were totally immune to the upset magic—thus spoiling the Sunburst homecoming bash. In hindsight, I wonder if it was my fault. I've seen Centerville play four times over the years and they've never lost—starting with the Miners eight-man title victory against Denton in 1999.

With the floodlit gridiron surrounded by darkness and the scenic vista beyond the end zone invisible, the Sunburst-Centerville football game transformed into an ordinary Friday night football game that could be found in Texas, Nebraska or Pennsylvania. My energy to work my camera dissipated with the day's light. Surly if the game had been a dogfight, Slim and I would have stayed and adopted the role of spectators.

As we walked out to our vehicle during halftime, Sunburst's coach Matt Clark stopped me and asked if I was the one who wrote the football blog. I came clean about it although I was embarrassed that I'd been busted leaving the game early—by the home team's football coach no less! Despite the impending loss that was breathing down on his team, Coach Clark thanked me for coming up. Impressed we were.

• • •

Slim was making the complimentary motel coffee at 4:45 a.m. the next day. By 5:45 a.m. we had secured a booth in the only cafe that was open in Shelby, Montana on a Sunday morning. On the way home, we mused about the owners of Cadillac pickup trucks and wondered if they drove their rigs with cow manure on their boots. Slim suspected there must be a nicely crafted boot box located somewhere in the bed of the truck (lined of course) while leather house slippers are worn in the cab. Hmmm, if you're a Cadillac pickup owner, we'd be curious to know the answer to this query of ours.

Morning light at Power, Montana.

Desperate for a stronger cup of coffee than that provided by the Sherlock Motel, Slim and I detoured at Dutton and Power as we made our way down the interstate. It was Sunday and way too early so, as expected, we came away from the two communities empty-handed. Nevertheless, I couldn't resist photographing Power's gridiron in the early morning light with the delicate coating of frost on the turf.

Finally in Great Falls we stumbled into a Starbucks. I don't know, is it me or are Starbucks and its clones filling up with pretentious customers— just shy of those who show up for an exhibit opening at a big city art gallery featuring damaged lamp shade sculptures?

After our foo-foo (but strong) coffee and nearing Belt, we continued in our musing as we considered the everyday operations of a fictitious Department of Homeland Insecurity and the qualifications required to work for that branch of the government.

And then something about Al Gore's Nobel Peace Prize, his oversized home, what if global warming really was a hoax, and what would be so wrong with reducing our waste just for the hell of it?

It's all starting to blur now... Did I tell you it was 996 miles?

The Gospel According to Epler

The Chester, Kansas original six.

The following excerpt is from Stephen Epler's book titled Six-Man Football: The Streamlined Game. Published by Harper & Brothers Publishers in 1938. When I was reading this to myself the other day, I felt as though I should be standing before a congregation of football disciples...

The Beginnings of Six-man Football

Six-man football can best be explained to the person familiar with the eleven-man game as the usual football played by two teams that play without tackles and guards, and are short the services of one halfback. A six-man team is composed of two ends, a center, quarterback, halfback, and fullback. Six-man football is not a pass and touch game. Tackling and blocking as well as kicking, passing, and running with the ball are integral elements of the game.

A casual observer at a six-man game would notice little difference between the two types of football except the smaller number of players. A more careful observer would soon discern other differences. He would not only observe that there are fewer players, but that the field is smaller. He would notice that all the players are allowed to catch forward passes and that more players handle the ball. He would find it much easier to see what each player is doing and he could easily observe the movement of the ball. He would notice that this is a more open game and that every running play includes at least one lateral or backward pass. He would discover that there are few pile-ups and fewer injuries. The increased amount of scoring and the fast-moving play would hold his attention.

Six-man football is primarily a player's game and only incidentally a spectator's game. Players become enthusiastic about six-man because they are allowed to carry the ball, catch passes, and handle laterals. Every member of the team must be an all-around player skilled in ball handling, pass receiving, and pass throwing as well as in blocking and tackling. The freedom from injuries and the open play increase their zest.

—Stephen Epler, 1938

Starting with Noxon

The Red Devils of Noxon at summer practice.

Noxon, Montana is off the beaten path in every sense of the way. First of all, it is located in the extreme northwest corner of Montana and secondly, you have to drive over a one-lane bridge coming off the main highway to enter the town. With the Bitterroot and Cabinet Mountains on both sides and a healthy and thick stand of pine trees all around, Noxon would likely personify the quintessential image of what many people think Montana should look like—and perhaps Northern Idaho.

Despite its overall Montana-esque setting, Noxon is no Wibaux when it comes to football. That is to say, high school football still has its work cut out for it in Noxon compared to a town like Wibaux, Montana where the football season rates as high as the hunting season. While Noxon just restarted their football program in the late 90s, Wibaux has been competing for state football titles since its six-man days back in the late 30s and early 40s.

Another striking contrast between these two eight-man football schools/towns is that while some of the athletic kids in the high school at Noxon are "saving themselves" for the basketball season and opting out of football, Wibaux's community might not understand such rationale unless those same players could guarantee a state title in basketball.

Nevertheless, football tradition or location aren't everything.

* * *
I travelled to Noxon this past August to observe their first week of two-a-day practices. The idea came to me on the advice of Jody Oberweiser—the wife of Drummond's head football coach Jim Oberweiser. A few years earlier, I had considered a Noxon excursion until I heard they had installed lights. I decided 500-plus miles was too far to travel for a game under the homogenous-rendering flood lights of Friday night. So, I made plans to attend in the summer when two-a-day practices were held during the magical light of mornings and evenings.

I'm not sure what Noxon co-head coach Ted Miller thought when I called him up in June telling him about my idea to visit during their summer practices. Yet, he didn't discourage me, so I moved on with my plans.

One of the perks for travelling to that part of the state during the summer with ample time on my hands was stopping in to check out a few other small town football venues that I had pondered in the past—Superior, St. Regis, Plains, Thompson Falls, Troy, Charlo and Arlee. Along with Noxon, I would give Thompson Falls the nod for a great football setting with the added bonus of fielding a competitive team year after year.

There's a bit of anxiety when one commits to stay in a town/area they've never visited—especially if there isn't any advertising or significant word of mouth to lure you there like... oh let's say, the Bahamas. So, as I drove across the famed one-lane bridge that leads to Noxon, all I could say to myself was, "Well, this is it."

While in Noxon for the week, I stayed about five miles up the main highway (State Route 200) at the Cabinet Gorge RV Park. Diane gave me a great campsite for four nights at $42. Although I slept in my little tent and on the ground every night, it was priceless to know that a hot shower was a short walk away.

I had most of my meals from my cooler that I kept stocked with ice. However, I did break down for one meal and ordered a wonderful burger at Sneakers Bar and Grill in downtown Noxon. Next door at the Noxon Merchantile I found a bag of Australian Kookaburra licorice—what a treat and the last place I would have guessed to carry such a luxurious import. I also found my morning coffee (and a breakfast burrito) from the portable and efficient Road Runners Espresso—a converted potato chip truck that set up every morning at the end of the bridge by the main highway.

* * *
I knew it would be a good week when freshman Tyrell Wilkenson walked out of the locker room boasting one evening practice that he had gained weight over the summer and was now a whopping 136 pounds—soaking wet.

You can't help but get attached to any team if you spend enough time with them. I felt quite indifferent when I started shooting on Tuesday night, but by Friday afternoon I was a Red Devil fan as much as anyone else. Regardless of the 2007 season, I hope they come away from it with a great deal of confidence that will carry them into the 2008 season and beyond.

Leaving town that Saturday, I considered my comparison of Noxon and Wibaux and the hypothetical result of combining Noxon's scenery with the football enthusiasm of Wibaux—they'd probably have one whale of a football team. Some might argue I've just described Drummond and Centerville.

Coach Kudos

Here's a great article about Class C coaches Dan Lucier of Superior and Drummond's Jim Oberweiser. The story was written by Chad Dundas of the Missoulian, based in Missoula, Montana. Click HERE

Exhibit Opening

Summer practice at Broadview.

Come one, come all. The Western Heritage Center in downtown Billings, Montana will be hosting a photography exhibit titled "The Biggest Game in a Small Town" This is a collection of 50 images from small town high school football games in Montana and Wyoming from 1997-2007 by yours truly. The exhibit runs from September 13 through December 1. Museum hours are Tuesdays–Saturdays 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. The museum is located at 2822 Montana Avenue and their web site is www.ywhc.org

Hitting Isn't Good Tackling

Tackling drills during summer practice at Noxon.

As a fan of high school football, I was disturbed upon reading a recent sports feature in my local hometown newspaper (The Powell Tribune) about the Powell High School football program titled "Natural Born Hitters." In short, the article featured six players from the high school team and discussed their ability and hunger to "hit." The following is my response to the "Natural Born Hitters" story.

Hitting (i.e. a purposeful violent tackle or collision) does not personify nor define the game of football anymore than the cumulative GPA of a football team. It is only a small part—in fact a by-product of sorts—and certainly should not be glorified nor the focal point of the game as this story so sadly portrays.

This story has somehow confused good tackling with this thing called hitting which doesn't necessarily result in a successful tackle. I've seen plenty of mediocre teams over the years with their proclaimed hard hitters, but the brilliant teams are those where every player is running to the ball right up to the whistle instead of walking down field while one of their teammates attempts to make a "vicious hit." With three or more defenders on the ball carrier, a successful tackle is much more likely.

Of all attributes found in the game of gridiron football, I wondered why hitting was highlighted in this particular story. Whatever happened to the character building that should take place via the principles of a strong work ethic, sportsmanship, creative play selection or teamwork? It was always my understanding that to participate in any sport was to become a better person. How are we helping to build character in a young man if we validate a behavior where he "imagines the punishment he can deliver?" What kind of thumbless mentality are we perpetuating here?

Although quite physical, football is also a game of strategy, finesse and proper execution of any given play that is called. It doesn't have to be smash-mouth with the intention of humiliating one's opponent or "wrecking one's spirit and determination." Those teams who aspire only to play smash-mouth football are typically one-dimensional and unimaginative. Eventually their assorted weaknesses are discovered and exploited leading to their defeat.

Reading through the story I couldn't help but think of the smack-based talk associated with the WWE ("professional" wrestling). I will even venture to say that perhaps those who find hitting to be such a great attribute in football might also be the same who attend a NASCAR event hoping they'll witness a brutal crash.

I can only imagine the non-football fans in the area reading "Natural Born Hitters" and finding even more distaste for a game that they believe is oozing with testosterone. I can't blame them.

Tackling drills at Fromberg.

As memorable as "big hits" might be, Chuck Bednarik's hit on Frank Gifford in 1960 (at best) only helped to seal the Eagles victory over the Giants while Jack Tatum's 1978 hit on Darryl Stingley was during a preseason contest. Such "bone-jarring hits" typically are more poignant in ending careers rather than winning football games as was the case in these two famous hits. Sadly, Bednarik is better known for his hit on Gifford rather than his place in the Hall of Fame or his role as the last of the Sixty-Minute Men (those who played both offense and defense).


It's a fine line between wanting to deliver a vicious hit and wanting to injure one's opponent. I have yet to learn of any football player who is capable of controlling their power and velocity of any given tackle/hit to insure that only the former results. Coaches and fans need to be thoughtful in the kind of encouragement we pass on to these young and impressionable players.

Everyone knows that any game/sport as physical as football has always been prone to a higher injury rate than those that are less physical. As I see it, the "Natural Born Hitters" story only endorses a style of play that increases the likelihood of injury. And that's just irresponsible.

Finally, we should keep in mind that just because a football player is considered a hard hitter doesn't mean the impact of their hit is totally absorbed by the individual in their crosshairs. Many of the game's best hitters leave the game before their time due to injuries associated with their overly-aggressive style of play.

Reservation Regards

Lance Brockie’s halftime recovery at Hays-Lodgepole

Congratulations to the Hays-Lodgepole Thunderbirds and their Class C basketball championship this past week. The Reservations continue to post some of the best basketball teams in both of these states.

Although I don't follow basketball anything like I do the football season, I still watch from the comfort of my computer the basketball season, especially when it gets into the post-season. In particular, like football, I watch the small schools—the ones I've seen play football. I also look for the same names that I would see on the gridiron.

I was at the Hays-Lodgepole gridiron during the 2005 season and watched Lance Brockie and his Thunderbird teammates take a beating from the visiting Knights from Northstar. I suppose no one was too surprised, but I remember seeing the look of competition in the eyes of the gridders from Hays-Lodgepole. They probably didn't like losing in football anymore than in basketball. I also remember overhearing the players from Northstar commenting on how big Brockie was. They clearly knew him from the basketball court as well.

They say basketball and the Reservations go hand-in-hand. What is it about football that doesn't produce the same consistent results in these Native American communities?

Nevertheless, I remember the six-man football team from Lame Deer in 1999. They made it to the playoffs and went on to Highwood and defeated the Mountaineers who are always a perennial favorite when it comes to football playoffs—if not outright winning the state title. Though they didn't win the state title, the Morning Stars were clearly a good football team hailing from the Northern Cheyenne Reservation.

A Barometer for Innocence

My father, Dan Tyree, and his little brother Jimmy.
(Jimmy would go on and play at Baldwin-Wallace)

Not long ago, a friend challenged me to explain “innocence” and “grass roots” as it relates to small town high school football in Wyoming and Montana. Initially my incorporation of these two terms has come from listening to my father talk over the years about how the game was played in his home town of Akron, Ohio—as a member of the Ellet High School football team back in the early 1940s.

I called my Dad the other day to get a refresher course on his version of high school football. Although Akron was considered one of the country’s larger cities back then, football at the high school level was relatively small-time compared to today’s version. The same is true even when contrasting it to present-day towns where far fewer people reside.

Listening to him, I looked for common attributes between what he described and what I’ve seen over the past ten years during my travels to football’s smallest venues. And so, here’s what I learned… one more time.

No one was a celebrity. It truly was a team sport back then and people didn’t carry on about the skills or talent of any single player. Few players went on to play college ball because of the war, and if they did no one really paid it much mind.

There were no two-a-day practices, but typically the coaches would not allow them to drink water during practices—the rationale back then was that water would slow down the athlete.

No playoffs. There wasn’t a great emphasis on having a winning season. Undoubtedly everyone wanted to win their games, but no one’s life, football career or even weekend was ruined if a game was lost. You just had your season and it was over when the last game ended and everyone moved on to something like basketball. Parents didn’t get overly involved in their kids athletics, much less pressure them to play or perform well.

My father and his teammates knew several players from the competing schools. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon to hang out with their nearby rivals they played every year. Rivalries back then were few and were mostly in good sport, rather than the bitterness and harsh exchanges of today’s rivalries.

Most of the people that attended games were either family or good friends of the players. There were no seats and the spectators (not fans) either stood along the sidelines or walked up and down the sidelines behind a rope to follow the play.

The field was hardly manicured like today’s gridirons. They practiced on the same field as their home games. The only grooming the Ellet football field received back then was when someone would remove the cow manure off before a game. In places like Dubois, Wyoming, and Absarokee, Montana, you’ll find plenty of deer and elk manure on the gridiron and in Gardiner, Montana, bison “remnants” are common too.

The gridiron wasn’t next to the school. They had to walk about a half mile to their games and practices wearing their gear. One guy on the team lived between the school and the football field and they would always stop and get cigarettes at his house to smoke on their way to practice. Today, you’ll find football teams in Rosebud and Alberton, Montana making the regular treks from their school-based locker rooms to the gridiron down the road, although I doubt you’ll see any of them smoking along the way.

Everyone played on Saturday afternoons back then because no one had floodlights. This is still the case in many of today’s smaller classes in Wyoming and Montana, but many schools aspire to get floodlights if they don’t have them already.

I recall someone once telling me how small town teams in Montana would meet in a vacant field located between the two schools because it was so cost prohibitive for one team to drive the entire distance. Is there anyone out there who knows of such events?

As long as I’m asking, in the reader’s mind, what represents “grass roots” and “innocence” in the game of football—whether it be years ago or today?

Eventually Ennis

A stretch of highway leading to another game.

August 2004: It was a night of rain—big, fast and steady drops. The kind of rain that submerges the interstate before it can run off the asphalt. I pulled over at the RV Park in Cardwell, Montana after I'd had enough—reminding myself along the way that I was driving through drought-stricken Montana.

There was nothing disappointing about calling it a night. There was no agenda and sooner or later, despite the rain, I would have pulled over somewhere. Besides, I had passed a mutilated deer 15 minutes earlier and knew I didn’t want to be a part of that scene. So, the Cardwell exit off of Interstate 90 was as good as any to overnight.

I had wanted to sleep in my tent, but as the rain poured down, I opted for a makeshift bed in my little Mazda instead—the back seat down with my legs stretching into the boot. I’ve done it before and when positioning the pad just right, it’s good enough if I’m really tired. As it turned out, the persistent rain beating against the car made for the perfect white noise and sometime after 10:00 p.m. I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke around 2:15 a.m., I was alert as though I had slept the entire night. The stars were out telling me the wet weather had passed. I’d slept but my dreams were restless. Something to do with relating three different subjects in tonight’s drive. And then something to do with the football towns that I was covering, but now it was all a blur and didn’t make a bit of sense even if it had made sense in my sleep.

The campground office was closed when I pulled in earlier, so I hadn’t paid for the site. Of course, I was planning to pay in the morning once the office was open, but it was 2:30 a.m. and with the thought of continuing on, there would be no payment. But it wasn’t as if I had used their resources. I hadn’t plugged in, I hadn’t showered or used a toilet. I hadn’t even pumped one drop of water from one of the water pumps. I dismissed the thoughts of guilt and pulled out of the campground.

The gas gauge told me there wasn’t enough in the tank to make it to Ennis, so I pulled off at the Three Forks exit where a Towne Pump maintained a 24-hour operation. Three Forks is named for its location as this is where the Jefferson, Madison and Missouri Rivers merge. I filled up the tank and put the interior of my car back in order as a result of my little camp out. Inside the store I purchased a bottle of Arrowhead water and a Little Debbie Fudge Rounder for 25 cents. The air was a bit chilly for a summer night (albeit 2:40 a.m.) as I unfolded the road atlas of Montana across the hood of the Mazda. This is when John, the truck driver, walked up out of the darkness.

I don’t know his actual name, but I’ll just refer to him as John.

“Where you going,” he asked?

I told him I was considering driving south on 287 to Ennis, Montana. I didn’t share with him my motive, but I’d heard it was a scenic place for a Class B eleven-man football game.

So, we talked. A lot about driving and the hazards of truck driving and the son-of-a-bitch companies that are calling the shots in the truck driving business. Stories that sound like anyone who works in the trenches of a trade-driven business. Everyone has a story about how the big companies shit on the little guys. In John’s case, they sell you a truck and then bust your ass to the point that you end up losing your truck.

Captitalism at its worse I thought. No one makes just a simple profit anymore, it’s all about making a killing at the expense of the masses. I can understand communism's appeal.

Despite this middle-of-the-night conversation, some of the things that John said weren’t very cohearent to me. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the cultural contrast between us. Maybe it was the little white pills that helped him keep his eyes open at such an ungodly hour. It didn’t much matter to me. I just felt that above everything else, guys like John just wanted someone to listen to them.

John was 60 years old. His teeth showed that he probably didn’t have a dental plan—probably not one in years. I asked him how many more years he would drive a truck. He said he would probably drive until he died. I pictured a slumped over truck driver at the wheel careening out of control, taking a family or two to the grave with him.

The conversation drifted in and out of understanding. He mentioned a 30-mile-pass in Indiana that was very dangerous. I couldn’t even think of a prominent hill in Indiana. This was especially obscure after I had just driven over Homestake Pass earlier that evening near Butte. What the hell was he talking about?

I started making an effort to end the conversation, but John seemed determine to keep on talking. Finally he must have picked up on my body language and made his way to the gas station store. He didn’t say goodbye or anything like that—he just drifted away like thick black smoke coming out of a chimney on a windy day.

I made my way to Ennis reluctantly. Seems like I could have stayed talking to John indefinitely at the truck stop. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of driving a two-lane highway in the wee hours of the morning, not to mention one that was unfamiliar.

As I drove south, the rain found me again. This time near Harrison.

The night seemed adamant about rain as long as I was insistent on driving. Maybe it was a sign telling me I shouldn’t drive at night. Maybe it was a sign that made me the unexplainable answer to the drought that had stalled out over the Northern Rockies for the past few years. I concluded that as long as I continued driving, perhaps it would keep raining.

Eight-Man's Illusion

Lincoln at Phillipsburg in eight-man play.

While driving around the back roads of Montana on any given autumn weekend, one could stumble upon a football game and if not paying attention, not realize it’s an eight-man game. Unlike the eleven-man version of football, eight-man is played on an 80 by 40-yard field (like six-man), but the extra players have a way of making the gridiron seem “occupied” in the same way an eleven-man contest occupies a standard sized gridiron. It’s only when one notices the missing wide receivers in an offensive formation with a full backfield or attempting to determine a defensive formation (i.e. 4-3-4, 6-2-3, etc.) that an epiphany results regarding this deficiency of players.

An Eight-Man Postcard

Just wanted to let you know that I really enjoy your blog on small town football. I just finished up a year of coaching an 8-man squad in Alabama where football is second only to The Southern Baptist in worship attendance. What I experienced was pure American. I wouldn't have traded it for anything. Attached is what has become one of my favorite pictures of my team. I thought I would share it with you. Keep up the great blog. You might check out the teams website. We are probably the smallest school in the state of Alabama to have a team.

Dewey
Brooklane Academy Eagles Football

Super Bowl Lament

End-of-season in Powell, Wyoming.

While all of America is busy securing their beer, soda and corn chip caches for the upcoming Super Bowl (XXX-something), this is one football fan who is moving on to those things that are more representative of January and February... ice skating comes to mind.

Here in the northwestern corner of Wyoming, it’s just another cold January day. The Chiefs and the Colts are duking it out now. Later on another match-up will follow between the Seahawks and the Cowboys. I could care. To be sure, Indianapolis quarterback Payton Manning is the only player from any of the teams remaining that I can name. I’ll only know of today’s outcomes when I call my parents knowing they’ve watched these two events on one of their five TV sets scattered around the house.

As for me, I’ve seen my Super Bowl way back in mid-November when championship football games are supposed to be played. In my case it was in Centerville, Montana (rather than Phoenix, Arizona), where the Montana state high school eight-man title game was played out. And was it a doozie—as good as any professional or college game I’ve seen in my 46-plus years. The only other games that can rival that were other high school games in the past—Geraldine vs. Custer-Melstone in the 2003 Montana six-man title game comes to mind. Nevertheless, I won't argue with those who make such claims about this year's Fiesta Bowl between Boise State and Oklahoma. I didn't watch the game, but the highlights were brilliant.

There was a time not so long ago when I would tune in the “gridiron winter games.” However, after years of mulling it around, I’ve concluded that December should be reserved for the commencement of the basketball, hockey and wrestling seasons. No football game should be allowed to flow over into December for any reason whatsoever, even if it is played in a state-of-the-art, temperature-controlled dome or the tropics of Florida.

I’d like to think I’m as much of a fan of the game as those who follow professional football, but the deep winter months of December, January and February are not for football in my mind. Call it heresy, but come December, I’m ready to take a break from anything to do with the gridiron.

And the NFL isn’t the only guilty party in overextending the football season. Spending the first day of the new year watching twelve hours of college football on TV is simply wrong—that’s no way to start any new year.

Speaking of college bowl games, it’s getting worse—everyone wants to have their own bowl game! Could I be the only one who finds it absolutely disgraceful to see a 6-5 team in a post-season bowl game—touted by the commentators as if they were some kind of championship team?

Like any good thing found in this country, we typically overdo it until it’s worn out or we can’t stomach it anymore—assuming we haven't fallen numb to its oversaturation. Isn't this the case with Christmas, high-tech gadgets, SUVs, Brittany Spears and now football? Where is America’s sense of “modesty” these days? I like football way too much, so I’m ready to put it away when it should be put away—no later than November 30.

So, when this year's Super Bowl rolls around again, I’m out of here. Spare me the two hour pre-game show consisting of ex-jocks, talking heads and all the other fanfare and overproduced television commercials for what will likely be a mediocre football game. If I can stomach it, I’ll read about the big game in the newspapers or the internet. Besides it won’t be long now before the excessively long professional baseball season emerges from the cold depths of winter, but that’s a rant for another day.

Luxury and Letdown

Joliet coach Fred Snodgrass addresses his team at their season’s end.

30 October 2004
It’s Saturday night here in Powell, Wyoming and unlike many Saturday nights during the football season, I’m not driving through the darkness of Montana on the lookout for mule deer in my path following another faraway high school football game. Nope, today’s game was in nearby Roberts, Montana—a mere 90 minute drive from home. The one o’clock kick off allowed my family and I the luxury of arriving home well before darkness fell—even during these shortened days of autumn as they begin to give way to winter.

The excess daylight following the game provided us a short detour to Clark’s Fork Canyon on the way home where a drama of clouds and light were playing over this small component of the Beartooth Mountains. Besides the luxury of daylight, another luxury resulted from the day’s short trip to Roberts—the luxury of thought.

Rather than consumed in high beams and arriving home safely, on this Saturday night my thoughts and cares are elsewhere as I step out into the darkness of my backyard. Looking up to the star-lit sky, I paused to consider the dissappointment that surely lurks in Montana’s smallest towns tonight as I wonder who fell to defeat in the first round of playoffs. Were the young men hanging their heads low in towns like Winifred or maybe kicking the dry dirt in Sunburst? Surely the humbling sting of today’s lost contest is just starting to set in for the players from Culbertson and Bainsville—way up in the northeastern part, where it is a short drive to the border of North Dakota (and not much farther to Canada).

Sooner or later, all but one team from each class goes through this year-end let down. Sometimes I find it hard to believe this sport is so popular knowing how every season plays out.

Connoisseur of the Concessions

Tanya at Centerville.

My wife, Tanya, witnessed her first football game back in 2002 when she attended the opening home game of the Powell High School football season. She was hardly impressed. Despite her sub-par initial reaction, it really had nothing to do with the quality of play regarding the hometown Panthers or their opponents that night, but rather it was about her idea of the game of football influenced by a land far, far away.

Since she was 11 years old, Tanya lived in New Zealand until moving to the States at the ripe old age of 30. And if there's any one thing you need to know about New Zealand, it is that (as a country) gridiron football is probably about as popular as badminton is here in the U.S. The Kiwi version of football held in high esteem is called Rugby. As you probably have guessed, gridiron football takes some getting used to if one has been watching Rugby most of their life. Undoubtedly, the same would be true of watching gridiron all your life and then watching Rugby.

But her sour outlook on gridiron football started to change a year or two later when she tagged along with me to towns like Dubois, Belfry, Heart Butte, Drummond and Lima; she started taking a liking to the game of gridiron football—especially the eight-man version. And soon after that, she even developed a fondness for particular teams.

In 2003, when we travelled more miles than any other year, it was my own wife who first told me that Drummond was the team to beat after watching them defeat Noxon early in the season. For the most part, I was humoured that she had come so far from her initial disliking for the game to picking a team that she considered the best. Nevertheless, I was confident that Harlowton was the best team after watching them trounce Joliet and Denton during the regular season—not to mention that my knowledge of gridiron football was much more credible than hers.

So, during the quarterfinals that year, we both watched Drummond defeat Harlowton 40-0 and (as many know) went on to win their first state title. What do I know?

Yet, Tanya's true passion for attending any game extends beyond the gridiron play—resting instead on the concession stands and their offerings of popcorn, nachos, candy, soft drinks, hot dogs and hamburgers. The outcome of the game (for the most part) is really secondary to her.

So, when I asked her recently to give me some kind of list of small town football's outstanding concession stands, here's what she had to say:

BEST OVERALL CONCESSION STAND: Big Sandy and Drummond (could this be the largest factor behind her loyalty for Drummond?). NEEDS-MORE-WORK CONCESSION STAND: Rosebud (candy was the only offering). IT'LL-COST-YOU-AN-ARM-& A-LEG CONCESSION STAND: Custer. BEST CHEESEBURGER (her favorite concession stand item): Drummond and Denton. BACK2BBQ CHEESEBURGER: Harlowton (served cold) and Gardiner (not cooked thoroughly). And although no single concession stand stood out in its excellence in popcorn, she only remembers the NEEDS-MORE-WORK POPCORN: Eureka and Dubois (Wyoming). HONORABLE MENTION to Rocky Boy for serving saveloys (the Kiwi name for a hot dog/sausage with red casing).

Of course, Tanya is not the only one who benefits from the concession stand when we travel together. There are those weekends when she doesn't travel with me and as a result, I might only purchase a small bag of popcorn and/or a candy bar. I typically don't stop long enough to savor the concession stand offerings on my own. But when Tanya is along, I can be sure that she'll find me on the sidelines somewhere and force me to pause long enough for a delightful, char-broiled hamburger or hot dog with a cold Coke.

And if I'm lucky, she'll help me in the long drive home after the game.

Small Town Coach for Hire

I get some pretty unique comments and emails regarding this blog site. Regardless, I never thought someone would consider this project as a link to finding a coaching job, but as John Prine would say, "It's a big old goofy world." So, if any school system out there is interested in the following, drop me a line and I'll hook you up with this small town football coaching prospect.

I have 25 years experience coaching high school football in three states: Ohio, Maryland, and Florida. Currently I reside in Florida. My journey—God-willing—is to become a head football coach in a small town (in any state). However, I do not posess a teaching degree. In the past I have always worked as a sub-contractor for a given school or on a volunteer basis. My family includes my wife and four children.

My search is for a program that is in need of rebuilding. I have been involved with some great football programs over the years—attributed to my hard-nosed, hard-working, Christian values. My approach is a concerted focus on details and accountibility from coaches to players and from players back to coaches. I am 43-years-old and have been involved with football more than half my life.This may come off as a strange e-mail, just understand I am trying to live out a dream and if you have any knowledge of a program that would consider or talk to me, please have them call me.

GOD BLESS THIS E-MAIL THAT IT MAY FALL INTO THE RIGHT HANDS.

Emotional Extremes

Schilling’s big catch.

I'll be the first to admit it—so count me amongst the non-believers—I didn't give the Miners of Centerville a chance against Wibaux. The best I could hope for was a two touchdown margin of victory for the Longhorns. And when I watched the Miners take the field from the Centerville hillside, there was nothing about them that impressed me like the 1999 title team. Maybe it's just those giant numbers on the Miner jerseys that dwarf the young men wearing them.

In the early minutes of the game—I think it may have been the second play—Wibaux grabbed an interception and the next thing I knew they were on the scoreboard. “The romp is on,” I said to myself from the hillside.

I came so close to attending the Highwood-Roberts six-man title game which was probably only a 45-minute drive from Centerville, and as Wibaux drove in that first touchdown, I was practically kicking myself for my final game selection of Centerville over Highwood.

Nevertheless, I had made a thoughtful and informed decision. I'd been thinking about it all week and even as I drove off in the wee early morning hours on Saturday, I was still considering which game I would attend since they were both in the vicinity of Great Falls.
_____________ . _____________

In the first place, I had attended at least two games at both locations going back to 1999, so I wasn't hurting for images from the Highwood or Centerville gridiron.

I also toyed with the idea of driving to Highwood to shoot the first half of the six-man title game and then speeding over to Centerville to watch the eight-man title game conclusion. After all, halftime for the six-man game at Highwood would likely come earlier than the Centerville-Wibaux game because each quarter is two minutes shorter—this would also buy me more time in the drive between games. Despite this logic, it made me feel cheap because I was opting for quantity over quality. Further, I tried this same experiment last year with a game at Rapelje against Ten Sleep (Wyoming) and another game at Park City against Winifred. When I arrived at the second game, there was only seven minutes remaining because Park City was clobbering Winifred which resulted in a running clock.

Another thing I considered was the team match-ups at Highwood and Centerville. Early in the year I attended the Roberts-Highwood regular season game held at Roberts—a damn good game to be sure. Although Highwood won, it was closely contested; so close that I reckoned Roberts could win if they played again. So, if I desired an uncertain outcome, than Highwood was my choice. However, as I mentioned above, I had my doubts about a well-contested game at Centerville. Yet, Centerville and Wibaux never see each other during the regular season. In fact, the only other time I know they've met was in 2000 for a semi-final game. Thus, there was a certain mystical attraction in the contest—kind of like Dracula vs. Frankenstein or Jason vs. Freddie—even if I was certain of the movie's ending.

Thanks to my early start, I arrived at the Highwood turnoff around 10:30 a.m. for a game that wasn't starting until 1:00 p.m. and I still hadn't made a decision regarding which game to attend. With the excess time on hand, I decided to drive on towards Centerville and have a look around the surrounding towns of Sand Coulee and Stockett which also contribute to the contingency of Miners from the "tri-town" area. Despite attending two other Centerville games in the past, I'd never travelled beyond its gridiron. Following my tour of the area, I would drift on over to Highwood for the actual game if that was my inclination.

Walking around in the "downtown" area of Sand Coulee, I approached the town paramedic/EMT who was preparing to depart for the football game. Standing next to his truck while he smoked a cigarette, I finally asked him directly, "So, why should I attend this game over the game in Highwood?"

He paused a moment and then told me about "some F-14s" that would be flying over just before the game started. Initially I was humoured by his reply, but more importantly, I was finally swayed in which game to attend.

Sure, it's no big deal when a bunch of fighter aircraft buzz a major college or professional football game, but flying over an eight-man football game was rare in my book. Truly, this could be one of those small town moments. I made my way for the Centerville gridiron and confirmed my tip with the athletic director after I paid my six-dollar admission. Afterwards I positioned myself on the hillside with a camera that I considered would capture the moment and setting as I scoured the horizon for the incoming F-14s.

Keeping my vigilance, I felt a bit inadequate with my miniscule Nikon camera, especially since I didn't even know the direction of their approach. I knew there wouldn't be much time if I had the luxury of seeing them close in on the venue—even less time if they came from over the hill behind me. For a moment, I sympathized with the Iraqi army back in those early and glorified days of the "war on terror."

At 12:50 p.m. I spyed two, fast-approaching bogies and within seconds managed to peel off four shots before they were out of sight. I didn't even have time to make a positive I.D.—friend or foe. Now I know what a poor soldier I would make… shoot first and ask questions later.

Regardless, it was "mission accomplished" and kick-off was only moments away.
_____________ . _____________

Well, I'm hardly a sports writer, but the whimsical happenstance (despite my attempts at logical reasoning) that brought me to Centerville resulted in one of the most exciting football games I had ever witnessed—at any level of the game.

Following the second Wibaux kickoff in the early minutes of the game, I was taken back when Centerville marched the football down the field and tied the score. Not only that, they made the two-point conversion and grabbed the lead. I was amused. "Well, at least it won't be a shut-out," I said under my breath from the hillside.

The visiting Longhorns came right back with another score on a long pass to their swift halfback and regained the lead, but failed again to make the conversion. And as the first quarter came to an end, the Miners answered back with a long pass of their own and suddenly, I found myself attending the game I thought was to be found only in Highwood.

In short, I was stunned and remained so throughout the game especially when Centerville was up 42-20 early in the fourth quarter. Even a few players from Chester J-I (who represented the only team that had faced both teams; Centerville during the regular season and Wibaux in the playoffs) were somewhat shocked. But just about when I thought there was no hope for the Longhorns, I was stunned again when Wibaux came storming back while the Centerville passing game fell oddly silent.

The momentum of the game had shifted to Wibaux's side and with less than two minutes remaining in the game, Wibaux miraculously tied the game to send it into overtime. At that point I was sure the Longhorns would win the game, but even so and regardless of the outcome, this was far from the game I had expected. Then I considered either team receiving the runner-up trophy—it didn't seem fair.

Overtime in Montana playoffs is settled by each team having four downs from their opponents ten yard line—reminiscent of extra innings in a baseball game. If neither team scores, they each receive another set of downs until the tie is broken.

Centerville won the coin toss for overtime and chose to defend first (just like the home team in a baseball game). And in that first set of downs during overtime, Wibaux's momentum was suddenly neutralized when they lost a fumble near the goal line.

Centerville's offense started with a sputter of their own in that first possession of overtime. On second down—out of the shotgun formation—the Miner quarterback missed the ball as it passed between his legs, but he recovered it back on the 21 yard line. As it turned out, this loss opened up the passing lanes between the line of scrimmage and the end zone, and on the next play he found one of his favorite receivers in man-to-man coverage with a perfect strike over the middle in the end zone.

As the setting sun drew closer to the horizon, I witnessed the mingling of emotional extremes. The yellow-clad jerseys of the Wibaux team—some still lying on the field from the play that just ended the game—were engulfed by the black-clad fans and players from Centerville pouring on to the field to embrace the player who caught the winning pass and his other teammates.
_____________ . _____________

Wibaux halftime pep talk.

And I thought the team and fans from Drummond had a long drive back from Wibaux the week before upon losing their first game in 45 wins (the longest winning steak in Montana history) during the semi-final contest with the Longhorns. But, it was clear that the crowd from Wibaux had it every bit as bad—might as well be a 2,000 mile drive home for them. I wondered if many of them came to the game with the same expectations as myself—thinking the Longhorns would be less challenged in this game compared to the Drummond game.

On the drive home, I thought about those exhilarated hometown fans at the Centerville Bar or The American Bar in nearby Stockett. Perhaps I should have lingered a bit to witness the merriment. Nevertheless, the further I drove into the night, I found myself thinking more about the defeated Wibaux team instead—the Pittsburgh Steelers of Montana 8-man football.

The week before I sat in Wibaux's most popular watering hole, the Rainbow Club, where locals watched old videos of past title games on one of the TVs. It was a reminder of how many titles the school had claimed over the years and how high the locals held up those championship teams. Certainly this group of players wanted to be counted amongst those elite title teams of the past as well. "Weren't they as good," I asked myself, "Don't they deserve to be included in that elevated group even if they came up short in overtime of the title game?" Former player and assistant coach Travis Nellemore could surely speak to the question. If I recall correctly, he played on teams that won the state title and lost the state title games. I'd like to think that whatever he said to the Wibaux players—perhaps from the darkened interior of the humming bus as it glided eastward down the lone highway—somehow shortened that long drive home.

The Rematch

The Wibaux Longhorns getting revved up.

Wow, what a game. What... a... game—one of those that you hate to see either team lose.

Nevertheless, Wibaux appeared to be the better team from the opening minutes of the game. But, no one told the Trojans they had met their match which is why the outcome of the game was unknown until those final seconds.

My hat goes off to the Drummond Trojans, not just this year's team, but all the teams—going back to that first game of the 2003 season when it all started. I don't like to claim favorites in all the miles of following small town high school football games, but Drummond would be up there if a gun was held to my head. Why? Despite their success, the coaches and players have always maintained an air of modesty and humility about them. In short, they don't flaunt it. I wish our country's foreign policy would adopt some of these attributes found in Drummond's football team.

Oops... politics, I probably shouldn't go there. Not here anyway.

So now, Wibaux finds itself back in familiar territory—the state title game. I haven't seen this year's group of Miners from Centerville, but I'd be a fool to bet against the Longhorns after watching them this past weekend. Someone point out their weakness to me because I didn't see it.

All game talk aside, my favorite image/memory of the Wibaux-Drummond game won't be the eruption of Wibaux fans when they realized their Longhorns had sealed the victory, nor will it be the look of defeat on a team that has never experienced defeat. Rather, it was a simple and fleeting image and I suspect few noticed—it was Wibaux's head coach Jeff Bertelsen. Once the game's outcome was history, I glanced over to find him sitting on the sidelines with his bare, kicking legs stretched out in front of him like a giddy child in a bathtub—it is truly remarkable to see such unbridled happiness in a person. So, "Where's the image," you might ask? I'm sorry to say, but as far as photography goes, that was a fish that got away.

Postscript: I'm not sure if the Wibaux-Drummond II outcome means there's a changing of the guard in Montana Class C eight-man football. I suspect Drummond will be back (like Wibaux did this year) as well as the usual suspects; Centerville, Park City, and Stanford. Anyone else? Oh yes, and than there is Superior coming down from Class B to join the ranks of eight-man once again. They had 41 players on this year's team and they were in the Class B playoffs too.

Stay tuned as this story has no end.

The Harebrain Law of Equals and Eight-Man Football

2004 Wibaux at Drummond playoff showdown.

Like many good folks around the state of Montana, it's hard not to think about this weekend's upcoming semifinal football games. Personally, I don't know what to think of myself walking around the campus of Northwest College in Powell, Wyoming thinking about playoff football games in Montana when my hometown Panthers are playing for the state title in Douglas this weekend. Traitor? Well, I've some thoughts explaining this strange phenomenon, but I'll save that for another time.

In some ways I think the semifinals are as anticipated as the finals—in fact many people have pointed to a couple of the games (i.e., Wibaux vs. Drummond) and have made claims such as, "That's the state title game right there." Perhaps, but if I had my way, I'd attend the Wibaux vs. Drummond game and the Park City vs. Centerville game too. That being possible, I wouldn't mind folding in the Libby vs. Dillion game too. Oh yes, than there is the Huntley Project vs. Malta.

I suppose there's this part in me that wishes the-powers-that-be would stagger the games so nut cases like myself could drive in record time between these games and witness each one. Yet, there is something good about picking only one and making the best of it.

I did that last week when I chose to drive to Park City for their showdown with Twin Bridges. Admittedly, I was hoping for a better game. Depending on who you talk to, either Park City is really good this year or Twin just didn't show up in full force.

Well that got me thinking about which teams really are the best based upon the common teams they've played thus far. So, here's what I came up with—it truly means nothing, but I just chuckled to myself for the pure entertainment of it all.

Centerville defeated Chester J-I 46-6
Wibaux defeated Chester J-I 54-12
Wibaux defeated Ekalaka 52-6
Centerville defeated Ekalaka 56-8
Therefore: Centerville equals Wibaux

Centerville defeated Valier 58-6
Stanford defeated Valier 56-0
Therefore: Centerville equals Stanford

Stanford defeated Absarokee 26-6 and 36-0
Park City defeated Absarokee 40-0
Therefore Park City equals Stanford

Drummond defeated Twin Bridges 42-6
Park City defeated Twin Bridges 46-8
Therefore Park City equals Drummond

Therefore: If Wibaux equals Centerville, Centerville equals Stanford, Stanford equals Park City and Park City equals Drummond, than Wibaux equals Drummond and Park City equals Centerville.

But, here's where the equation fall to pieces: Drummond defeated Stanford 38-6.

One last thought: A Wibaux-Drummond rematch? How many starters from that first meeting in 2004 will be playing this weekend? I suspect it's hardly a rematch from a player level.

Happy Election Day and best of luck to everyone this weekend. May the best teams truly win. See you in Wibaux.