Junior High Promises

Alberton at Philipsburg

Chuck Hamrick was the star of our eighth grade and freshman football team at Schrop Junior High School—a part of the Springfield Township School District located just beyond the city limits of Akron, Ohio. We ran from the wishbone formation that had an offensive backfield comprised of the school’s swiftest runners. Along with Hamrick at one halfback position, John Polinger took up the other half while Mike Baker ran out of the fullback position. Any one of these three were capable of breaking a play wide open with little effort from the front line.

But Chuck was special. You could sense it in all the coaches that spoke of him. Even the high school coaches were looking forward to his arrival. He was extremely fast and of good size for a freshman. Chuck Hamrick was one of those kids that passed through puberty early and fast. By the time he was a freshman, he had grown long sideburns while the remaining majority of us were in the height of adolescence.

Thanks to Hamrick and our talented backfield, we managed to go undefeated as a freshman team. However, in this same school district, the other junior high school was having a successful season as well, and we heard of their talent just as they, no doubt, heard of ours.

As our co-district rival, naturally we would face the Springhill Junior High Falcons in our last game. As that final game approached, we heard more and more about them. In particular their star halfback named Ray Angerstien—often called “Ray-Tater” or simply “Tater Bug.” I’m unsure as to how that nickname came to be, but Ray had a very unorthodox way of carrying the football and he was deceptionally fast—taking short choppy steps rather than the graceful gate of someone like Chuck Hamrick.

Everyone in the township probably started putting two and two together to predict that the two junior high teams would be a high school varsity team to contend with when our talents combined. That turned out to be true, but that’s another story.

The meeting of the Schrop Junior High Rams and the Spring Hill Junior High Falcons was marred by an unfortunate incident two weeks before the big game, when several members of the Falcon team were involved in some kind of alcohol-related scandal that resulted in the suspension of their most talented players for the upcoming big game. They lost their entire backfield in the suspension and in a desperate attempt, moved some of their biggest lineman to the backfield in hopes of overpowering Schrop. It was a bold and admirable move, but it failed in the end.

And so, no one ever saw the great and anticipated match-up of these two junior high school powerhouses and their talented backfields.

Meanwhile, the football coaches at the high school were looking forward to the arrival of these two freshman teams—in particular Chuck Hamrick who ran for a couple of touchdowns in the season finale. From my perspective, few references were ever made regarding Angerstien, and, if so, it was only after the mentioning of Chuck Hamrick.

And as these stories go, something funny happened during the summer between our freshman and sophomore years. Chuck Hamrick moved to Toledo, Ohio, when his father’s employer relocated. Hamrick was never heard from again. Surely many were surprised as I was to not hear of some powerhouse high school out of Toledo with a fleet-footed running back who was destined to become one of the nation’s top recruited players at the college level. Instead, back at Springfield High School, the Spartans went on to win the league title during our junior and senior year as expected, but instead of Chuck Hamrick, it was the brilliant and talented running of Ray Angerstien who carried the team. Angerstien was also named the player of the year in the greater Akron area along with his first string all-state accolades—truly a great feat in a football-rich state like Ohio. In the end, Angerstien was heavily recruited by every major college team in the country.

And although capable of college play, surprisingly to many and admirable to me, Ray Angerstien chose not to pursue football at the collegiate level.

Victory at Greybull... finally

Greybull halftime lecture at Burlington.

September 2001

Last night I attended my first high school football game in nearly two years. There were few things I missed during my year outside of the country, but high school football was definitely lumped into that minority.

I travelled to Greybull—about a 45 minute drive across the high desert of the Big Horn Basin—to watch the Buffalos take on the Rams of Dubois.

In considering all the games that were available that night, travelling to Greybull wasn’t exactly whimsical on my part. I’d been tipped off last month that Greybull was still winless after four seasons of play. Thirty-nine games and not one victory. An entire generation of football players (from freshman to seniors) had passed through the corridors and football field at Greybull and none of them had experienced a win. There were rumors floating around Greybull that the sophomore class had plenty of talent and even in varsity play (usually dominated by juniors and seniors), they might be able to carry the team to their first victory this year. I was hooked.

Two years ago, I had attended a friday afternoon game between Greybull and Burlington hosted by the Huskies of Burlington. It had been a tight game—tied up to the last minute. Greybull was marching down the field and looked unstoppable. From the Husky five-yard line with less than one minute to play, the quarterback rolled out of the pocket and attempted a pass to his receiver in the end zone. However, the ball was intercepted by one of the Husky defensive backs and he returned the ball over 100 yards for the winning touchdown. It was a true heartbreaker for the Buffalos.

Last night’s game was every bit as exciting. Dubois came out in the first quarter with the game’s first two touchdowns and surely the fans of Greybull were getting a refresher course in what to expect at a Greybull High School football game. But, before the half had ended, Greybull assembled a drive that resulted in their first touchdown. One could sense the rise of hope and confidence in the Greybull team just like the fireworks that shot up from the south end zone following the touchdown.

During half-time, one of the Dubois coaches was easily heard through the cinder-blocked locker room walls. They were not pleased with their six point advantage. In contrast, the Greybull camp seemed civil. I even considered it was too civil and possibly lacking of a “killer instinct” that was needed to win any game. I was wrong.

In the third quarter, Dubois produced their third touchdown making the game 18-6 in their favor. The Rams seemed for the most part unstoppable and on defense, they had been shutting down the Buffalos bland offense. Yet, like a desert mirage—lost in an undetermined span of time during the second half and out of nowhere—Greybull moved down the field and stuck the ball in the end zone. Their methodical offense chipped away at the Ram’s defense ever so subtle as if not to wake the sleeping giant and thus Dubois watched their two-touchdown lead fade like a dream.

On the ensuing kickoff, the ball carrier for Dubois fumbled the ball in open field—no one had even touched him—and Greybull recovered the ball. Suddenly Dubois was awake but they were no longer the giant. On the next play, Greybull demonstrated the textbook example of killer instinct and great coaching. A razzle-dazzle misdirection play led to a down-field pass and a wide open receiver. And just like that, the game was tied up. Dubois was in shock and never recovered.

The Ram’s offensive steam engine sputtered and stalled out on their next possession—turning the ball over to an energized Greybull team. The Buffs picked up where they left off in their last offensive stand as they marched down the field like an infantry of soldiers. There was nothing elegant in their advance—just basic, beginning-of-the-year football.

During those closing minutes, as Greybull approached the Dubois goal line, I was reminded of that game in Burlington two years ago. How many heartbreaks could this team take? But on this Friday night, it wasn’t to be. Greybull finished the drive with a touchdown and held off a last gasp effort from Dubois in the closing seconds of the game.

Driving out of town into the darkness of the Big Horn Basin with my root beer freeze from the Greybull A&W drive-in, I thought to myself, “Wow, tonight Greybull is going to be jumping—even the summer rodeos won’t surpass the excitement of this night.”

Return to Alberton

Evolution of a missed tackle at Alberton.

November 2003

In March of 1999 I came across an unusual discovery. On my way to Portland, Oregon with a friend, we traced an exit off of Interstate 90 into the town of Alberton, Montana for lunch. Afterwards, we drove around the small community and happened upon what appeared to be a small football field. It was one of those feelings that you might have if you walked into an abandoned alien spaceship or if you found a lost underground city. Yes, it was a gridiron, but something was different about it—perhaps it was simply the euphoria of the setting—against the spectacular mountains surrounding the narrow valley that held Alberton.

Although I knew little about six-man or eight-man football back then, I thought to myself that Alberton must be a great place to watch a football game in its sublime setting. When I walked the field that day with my friend, I couldn’t pinpoint why it seemed small, but as it turned out, it was smaller—an 80-yard field (a standard of eight-man and six-man play) rather than the usual 100-yard version.

Before leaving town, my mind was already scheming on a return trip to this overlooked community. When I inquired about the next season’s schedule at the local bookstore, I learned that lights would be installed so they could play Friday night games. This was a disappointment as I considered night games in a place like Alberton the same as night games anywhere—the unique and pristine gridiron backdrop would be lost in the darkness beyond the halogen flood lights. And so, I never gave much thought of Alberton again until last week when I heard they were hosting a Saturday afternoon playoff game.

Ten miles outside of Alberton I realized once again that I’d driven over 300 miles to see a team whose mascot and colours were unknown to me. Not the first time this has happened, yet it always comes as a refreshing surprise.

Upon my arrival to the playoff game in Alberton, I found the setting was like revisiting an old friend. And like an old friend that hasn’t been seen in years, there were subtle changes in the gridiron—or at least attributes I couldn’t recall from that late winter/early spring visit years before. For one, the bare-bones gridiron that I first happened across had been improved—a sure sign of a successful athletic booster program. There was now a chain link fence that paralleled the sidelines between end zones.

The goal post on the playing field seemed new—more than likely it had only received a new coat of paint. However, the practice field just to the west of the game field hadn’t changed a bit. The old scoreboard was still standing—as forgotten as it was when I first passed through.

Like that imaginary Norman Rockwell painting I considered in the past, the players walked down one of the streets of town in their football gear between the locker room and the playing field before and after the game—an image seen in other towns like Rosebud and Harlowton.

The public address system was no more than a powerful amplifier and speaker combo sitting in the bed of a shiny pickup truck under the crow’s nest. They played rock ’n’ roll music loudly over the system during warm-ups for the game. The music was an odd juxtaposition to the gridiron’s majestic backdrop, but I understood its pre-game role in “pumping up” the players and spectators for the day’s contest. Ironically the announcer mentioned near the end of the game that the booster club was raising money for a new p.a. system. I assume it will be something more permanent—fixed to the crow’s nest perhaps.

The sun moved across the top of the iconic mountain ridge overlooking the town and its gridiron until about half-time. And when it could no longer keep up with the towering folds of land, it dropped behind them, casting a long shadow across the entire field. Despite the gridiron’s sudden loss of light, I could look up the valley toward the east where it widened; there the land was still basking in the warm, late afternoon sunlight.

Looking back on that return visit to Alberton, the primitive field from 1999 had been improved. However, none of the newer developments distracted or took away from this pristine small town football setting. Alberton will remain as one of my favorite places to watch a small town high school football game even if they play on Friday nights. I’ll just have to attend the games early in the year when there is still plenty of light for the opening kickoff.

Geraldine, Montana

Arrow Creek area south of Geraldine.

Attending a high school football game in Geraldine, Montana has been on my list of “must-do-before-I-die” for years, but my first call on this small Montana town of 280 didn’t materialize until early November of 2002 when the Tigers hosted Belfry in the quarterfinals of the Montana Class “C” Six-Man playoffs. Not long before I departed for my first visit to Geraldine, I told one of my colleagues about the upcoming playoff game there and his only comment was in reference to the town’s name. “So, what happens in Geraldine,” he asked me? “Does the team take the field dressed up like sixties comedian Flip Wilson in his Geraldine outfit yelling with high-pitched voices at their opponents, ‘The Devil made us do it!’” However, there’s nothing to laugh about when the Tigers take to the field.

Over the years, they have built up a great program that is respected by all in the ranks of Montana six-man football. They are a well-oiled machine of young men showing all the signs of good coaching and self-discipline attributed to head coach Rod Tweet who has been Tiger head coach since 1982.

Geraldine was established in 1913 as a grain depot and is located in the central region of Montana favoring the north-central localities. Named for the wife of William Rockefeller, a major investor in the Milwaukee Railroad, which created the town. Today it is primarily a farming community where wheat is the main cash crop—the rows of grain elevators that line the railroad tracks skirting the town’s perimeter testify to this attribute. The banks of the Missouri River are less than a half hour drive to the north while the nearest motel coming from the south is 38 miles away in Stanford.

Geraldine steel.

In Geraldine’s heyday, it had up to 85 different business operations including two barber shops and three lumberyards. Today it has been whittled down to the bare necessities—a store, a bar/restaurant, one bank, one elevator company, one fuel and feed store, two garages, one hair shop, and one crop spray flying service. The public school is the town’s largest employer and the center of the community. Enrollment has been declining gradually over the years, but the town’s citizens are determined to keep the school in operation.

Some thirty miles on the other side of the nearby Highwood Mountains by way of a winding dirt road is the town of Highwood—Geraldine’s arch-rival in six-man football. Together, these somewhat obscure little towns with only a mountain between them and the great vastness of the country’s fourth largest state (in area) surrounding them have claimed 14 of the last 19 state titles in Montana six-man football.

Good Football in the Darndest Places

Rocky Mountain over Lusk in Wyoming State 2A game.

November 8, 1997 / Byron, Wyoming

The morning before the Wyoming State 2A Championship I found myself in the withering badlands bird hunting with a couple of friends not too far from the small town of Byron. I walked around with these guys and their dogs all morning in the windy, thirty-something degree temperatures. Around noon, I asked them to drop me off in Byron and told them about the hamburger-chili-brownie-pre-game meal. Though not interested in the game, they couldn’t resist the one-dollar meal that fueled them the remainder of the afternoon in their search for a fouler game.

The State 2A championship game between RMHS and Lusk High School started at 1:00 p.m. Though the weather wasn’t conducive to bird hunting, I embraced it at the stadium as I recalled my scant football-playing days in the same conditions. My association with the cool weather has always been with the post-season and is usually when most teams have perfected their game. Shivering as a spectator, I knew the chill in the air would only make this championship game more memorable for those on the gridiron.

Lusk isn’t exactly down the road from Byron. Located due east of Casper near the Nebraska/South Dakota border, I would guess they drove over six hours to contend for the state title in a town that refers to its northern horizon as Montana.

From the coin toss to the last minutes of the game, it exceeded any Super Bowl I'd ever witnessed on TV. Both teams displayed championship poise, talent and finesse. Despite the opening kickoff being returned for a touchdown by Rocky, Lusk answered right back with a touchdown of their own on their first possession. I knew it was going to be a great game. All the elements were right for it—call it good football karma. Each time one side scored the other would turn around and answer with the same result.

At halftime the score was too close to predict the outcome. A bit of gloom came over me as I considered one of these fine teams would walk off the field defeated. Both were deserving of championship status. In the end, it was the Grizzlies of Rocky Mountain High School that prevailed. Superior talent and athletic ability didn’t seem to factor into Rocky’s victory as much as good fortune and a better selection of plays by the coaching staff.

After the game, both teams remained on the field. The Lusk team retreated to the south end zone and when called out, proudly ran to the center of the field to claim their runner-up trophy despite the tears in their eyes. The home fans applauded loudly for them. A big lump grew in my throat and my vision became misty as they galloped out trying to hold their heads high.

Unlike the reporters and cameras in the locker rooms after the Super Bowl, the fans were permitted to walk onto the field after the game and see for themselves—first hand—the disappointment and jubilation found on the faces of each player. This proved to be a more intimate post-game experience—short of donning the helmet and pads myself. The best thing about it was no one had to ask any of those stupid post-game questions—all of the answers were right there in front of us.

Rosebud's New Field

First game, post-game at Rosebud.

September 2002

After nineteen years, football has returned to Rosebud, Montana. Unfortunately Rosebud’s first home game on their new field found them taking on an undefeated and talented team from Belfry; talk about raining on someone’s parade. During pre-game warm-ups, Belfry head coach Tom Webb lightly joked on the occasion, “Well, I guess we get to give them their inaugural butt whuppin.’”

I knew of the impending six-man mismatch earlier in the week and contemplated attending another game between two other undefeated powers, but I had made the conscious decision at the onset of the season to attend every Belfry game regardless of any lopsided match ups. As it turned out, my decision to stay with the Rosebud/Belfry game was a good one despite the 73-14 final score—in favor of Belfry of course.

The story in Rosebud wasn’t the game, but the new field that would be christened that day. Many of the not-so-perfect attributes of a classic small town football setting were brought to the front. For one, several fresh rows of rocky dirt ran parallel with the yard lines on the field where the new underground irrigation system had just been installed—hardly a well-manicured field. Added to this hazard were several new sprinkler heads that hadn’t quite seated themselves below the playing surface.

The game was well attended by the citizens of Rosebud—possibly every last one. Just before the game started, there was a euphoric ambiance in the air and the community was clearly proud of anything to do with this quaint little Montana town. The back of the program included a long list of individual names and businesses that contributed to the new field’s completion. The small section of bleachers was full and a line of spectators stretched the full 80 yards of the field on the home side. The public address system consisted of a woman with a bullhorn introducing the players just before kickoff.

And then there was the scoreboard which came all the way from Choteau, way up near Great Falls. It had only arrived on Thursday before the game. A Rosebud fan told me that it had fallen off the trailer while rumbling down Interstate 90. I laughed and imagined the next scoreboard gossip I heard would be about how they acquired it on Ebay. Despite its wear and possible tear, it sat on the trailer (a temporary setup I’m sure) just beyond the west endzone. An orange heavy-duty power cord snaked its way to the scoreboard from some undisclosed location—and all the lights seemed to work as it counted down through the afternoon. Where the scoreboard once read “HOME,” a block of heavy red paint with white letters now covered it reading, “ROSEBUD.”

Rosebud’s new field isn’t exactly adjacent to the high school. Rather it is about four blocks down one of the town’s main streets. After the game, in what reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting, a string of defeated Wranglers—still in uniform—could be seen walking through town heading for the school’s locker room.

Thanks Curt

Custer and Geraldine captains T. Stookey and M. Clark.

Curt Gowdy's first radio job came in 1944 in his hometown of Cheyenne, Wyoming standing on top of a couple of crates alongside a football field. It was six-man football, which seemed easy enough.

But Gowdy quickly discovered the football field wasn't lined. What's more, there were no rosters. When the players spilled out of the bus, Gowdy noticed the players' uniforms weren't numbered.

He had no time to identify players so he recalled names of friends, classmates or Army buddies. Was the ball on the 20-yard line, the 30 or out of bounds? He placed the ball wherever he thought it was.

Gowdy went home that day, believing he had failed terribly. Then the owner of the radio station called, offering him a steady job.

Years later as he sat in the press box at Yankee Stadium or Chicago's Soldier Field, he'd remember that afternoon in Cheyenne. "And I'd say to myself, 'Gowdy, what a lucky bastard you are.' "

National Coverage & Self Pity

Geraldine warm-ups before title game with Custer.

November 2003

After twelve consecutive weekends of travelling the two-lanes of Wyoming and Montana in search of small town high school football, I found myself in Geraldine, Montana for the Class “C” Six-Man state title game. Although I’d been to Geraldine the year before for a quarterfinal game, it was good to be back in this town of under 300—truly one of the smaller enclaves of small town high school football. The only other place I could have been on that last weekend was Drummond where the undefeated Trojans were hosting the Class “C” Eight-Man title game. However, I’d been there the week before for a semi-final playoff game.

Nevertheless, I would have chosen the six-man final over the Drummond offering regardless of my travels the week before. I’d told my partner several weeks earlier that if Custer-Melstone and Geraldine faced each other in the finals, I’d sworn to that title game over the other choices.

So, what was all the hullabaloo regarding the Custer-Melstone/Geraldine match-up? Admittedly, there was nothing unusual about Geraldine making it to the finals—they do it often and have won their share of title games too. The Tigers are a well-oiled machine and that oil consist of head coach Rod Tweet. Consider them the Ohio State of six-man football. Rather than three yards and a cloud of dust, it’s more like twelve yards and a slightly smaller cloud of dust.

Nevertheless, Custer-Melstone was the real story for me. Like Geraldine, the Cougars are well coached too. Brad Hoffman is a Custer rancher who takes time out to coach football. He’s not a teacher of any classroom, but one of his assistants told me, “He sees six-man football like no one I know.”

Last year the Custer-Melstone team was every bit as talented as this year’s team, but a surprising adversary from Geyser ambushed them in the quarterfinals. Since the Southern Six-Man Conference’s inception, no team representing it has ever won the state title. In fact, it’s not unusual for an all-north title game to result as in last year’s Highwood-Geraldine match-up. Fortunately this year the Custer-Melstone Cougars—champions of the Southern Six-Man Conference—had recorded another undefeated season, but this time around they soundly defeated Geyser in a rematch of last year’s quarterfinals and then the following week, eliminated last year’s champions, Highwood, in the semi-finals. Undoubtedly they felt this year’s trip to the state title game should have been their second in as many years.

Custer-Melstone also holds a special place in my heart because I knew the road to the title game was a bit rougher for them, especially the kids from Melstone—literally.

Both Custer and Melstone, Montana have fewer than 200 people in each town. Their high school enrollments (9–12) are 30 and 22 respectively. Typically football of any kind is not a commodity in towns with numbers this low. As a result, these two Montana communities and their schools organized a football co-operative in 1999 just so they could have a six-man football team between them.

“Between them” is also defined as the 40 miles of dirt road that separates Custer and Melstone. And there are no fast food shops, gas stations or mini-marts to be found along this wilderness thoroughfare that passes over the low rising eastern extension of the Bull Mountains.

Although the Custer Cougars and Melstone Broncs rival each other during the basketball season, every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday after school during the football season, the kids from Melstone (five of them in 2003) are driven by one of the parents over the 40-mile dirt road to Custer for practice—of course there is the return home via the same route afterwards too. On Thursdays, the head coach commutes to Melstone and drills the Bronc detachment in their last practice of the week—a light one—before their game on Friday nights or Saturday afternoons. At the same time on Thursdays, the Custer crew is supervised by the two assistant coaches. Of course there are the jaunts back to Custer on game days or to catch the team bus for a road trip.

So, things don’t exactly fall into place regarding football with the Custer-Melstone Cougars. There’s an extraordinary amount of sacrifice, co-ordination and hard work to make this little football co-operative work.
That was my take on the Montana Class “C” Six-Man title game.

When a crowd of over 4,000 converges on a town the size of Geraldine, I suspect the president of the United States could attend and not everyone would know about it. It’s not a typical small town high school football game by any means when this kind of crowd shows up. And this is why I never knew about the presence of The Washington Post until a couple days after the game was history.

The Post isn’t exactly known for its coverage on small town high school football, but on the week of the six-man title match-up, a writer and photographer representing The Post were in Geraldine working on a story about rural population decline through the eyes of a small town high school football team—an odd and unwelcome coincidence in my mind. Both writer and photographer were sent to cover the story about one small town in Northern Montana.

An e-mail from Brenda Clark, athletic director at Geraldine High School, thanked me for the images I had sent from the title game and told me how much she and her students enjoyed the electronic slide show I had given her on CD. Then came the news that made me want to vomit:

“Have you checked out the feature article about Geraldine that The Washington Post guys put together in their on-line photo gallery? You should check it out, washingtonpost.com—it’s awesome.”

I had hoped she wasn’t talking about the past week’s game. I noticed a couple of photographers there, but never considered there would be national coverage.

In seconds I was at The Washington Post home page and sure enough, there it was, with an image of the Geraldine grain elevators: Washington Post photographer Michael Robinson-Chavez photographed the championship football game in Geraldine, Montana. Photo above: Fielding Hope in Montana; View Slideshow.

It was one of those news incidents that make you stop whatever you are doing, or in my case, whatever I was planning on doing and process it over and over in my mind. The evening of grading and paying bills was ruined by what appeared to be an egocentric earthshaking. Later on I found myself comparing my stuff from Geraldine to his… His was better—not a big surprise I suppose. After all, he worked for a major newspaper as a photographer, I was just a lousy freelancer who would be working at Wal-Mart as a greeter before putting food on the table with my camera.

He had been there a good part of the week leading up to the big game since he had images from the practices. No doubt, his expenses were paid for. I doubt he had to drive the 300 miles I drove. They probably put him up in a cushy hotel in Great Falls with a sweet little rental car.

Like a spoiled little brat who didn’t get his way, another neighborhood kid was playing with my toys even if he wasn’t breaking them. I knew it was wrong to feel this way, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I know there are other shooters and writers out there who have felt the same.

I contemplated how I would have handled it at the game if I had known The Post was there. Would I have shot differently? Would I have tried harder to make myself better—to really get the good shots, as if it was my last game, ever—or would I have simply walked over and smashed Robinson-Chavez’s camera to bits?

“How did his idea come about,” I pondered? Later I read that it was the writer’s idea who was searching for a way to write about the depopulation of the Plains states. “Then why weren’t the images from the Plains states,” I thought? Why weren’t they in Texas, Nebraska or South Dakota? There’s plenty of small town football programs in those states. They grow wheat in Geraldine (or used to), but it’s hardly a town where you’d find Dorothy and Toto running around.

I considered all the promo material I’d innocently sent out that year. Yes, even some of it went back to Washington, D.C. Was it possible a friend of a friend of a contact came across some of my stuff and passed it on to someone at the Post? …Naaaah, that couldn’t happen. Yet, I found myself considering the risk of promoting my unknown work in the future. I was experiencing self-promotion hell.

I’d always imagined some photographer, some writer, like myself, showing up at one of the games someday looking at this part of the world in the same light and perhaps adopting it as their own project. I never thought much past that because I know how much work it would entail. Undoubtedly I’ve never felt too threatened when considering my seven-year head start on this imaginary individual. But, I never considered that individual a staffer for The Washington Post. In my mind, that imaginary seven-year head start vaporized when Robinson-Chavez showed up in Geraldine.

My chest tightening as I continued processing this matter. If I were the defending high school six-man championship team of Montana or Wyoming, Robinson-Chavez’s entrance was like the Carolina Panthers or New England Patriots showing up to challenge me.

Beyond the fact that a real professional photographer had stumbled upon my subject, I was also concerned about the nature of his employer and how they process and present their coverage. Often daily newspapers will whittle down the richest stories to a few tasty morsels and leave an impression on their readers as if they’ve been thorough. Images of the old buffalo hunters from the late 1800s that killed bison just for their tongue and left the the rest of the animal to rot came to mind.

Looking back on that day now, it appears that my small town high school football project is blessed and curse at the same time. Blessed in the fact that the national coverage was validation. I am truly on to something that intrigues the general public—it just isn’t in my mind anymore. Yes, someone else beyond my little world of friends and family members does “get it.” Cursed though in that now with this kind of exposure, this kind of caliber showing up in Geraldine, it’s ripe to be taken from me. Sometimes I feel like James T. Kirk aboard Enterprise that just lost its shields as the Romulans are swinging around one last time to blast me into stardust. One day it’s The Washington Post—the next day, who knows?

A few months after the big title game, Robinson-Chavez’s images from Geraldine appeared again in Photo District News. Yet more proof that my time is precious. What scared me the most about this wave of images were his comments about the assignment. Clearly he sees the same things I see in this subject. “I did anything I could to show people this wasn’t the suburbs, but instead the heartland of America… I wanted to get a flavor of location and football together.”

Like anyone, I start considering the worse case scenario—what if he decides to take this subject material and make it his project, what success or notoriety might I expect following the release of his book or major gallery exhibit? Does anyone know the name of the other flyers who contended for the first transatlantic flight other than Charles Lindbergh? Can anyone name one crew member from Apollo 12?

The PDN story also stated that Robinson-Chavez was preparing for his next assignment—Iraq. That’s a bigger pond for a truly bigger fish. From a selfish perspective, I hope the war and its fallout keeps him busy for a long time—long enough for me to exhaust all the opportunities that may result from the small town high school football project—or at least until Custer-Melstone wins the state title.

Miles of Mascots

Red Lodge's Rocky the Ram.

What mascot name would you expect the football team from Whitefish, Montana to own? It’s a tough one. The Fish? No, that would be redundant. The Whitefish Bottom Feeders… Naaaah! How about the Anglers? That might work even if it sounds like a fish that fishes for itself. Perhaps not masculine enough for a sport like football, but I’ve heard of worse. Of all the possibilities, the “Bulldogs” probably wouldn’t be anyone’s choice—even if it is one of the most popular mascot names, rooted in America’s first professional football team—the Canton Bulldogs.

Admittedly I hadn’t lost any sleep over my curiosity of the Whitefish football team mascot prior to their contest with the Anaconda Copperheads (yet another team name and mascot worthy of lively discussion), but it had crossed my mind somewhere in that 300-mile stretch between home and Anaconda. Perhaps somewhere around Three Forks, Montana I expected the clouds of my ignorance to part with a beam of sun that had the sensible name of the Whitefish mascot written on it. So imagine my dumbfounded response upon hearing they were the Bulldogs. I mean, what’s the connection between a whitefish and a bulldog?

Sad, but true, mascot names have kept me going on more than one occasion over the remote and uninteresting stretches of highway as I passed from one small town high school football game to another.

So, here’s the rundown on high school mascots in Wyoming and Montana.

• Some mascots are popular, all too predictable for this region of the country, and don’t linger long in my mind—names like Wranglers, Broncs, Warriors, Longhorns, Panthers and Eagles abound. There are at least five “Warrior” teams in Montana alone. However, it’s worth noting that some of these Warriors teams have rosters loaded with Native American players. Warriors from Heart Butte, Plenty Coups, Brockton and Wyoming Indian all are from or near a reservation.

• I’m always captivated by those mascot names that link the school to this region, but do so with an unpredictable flair. The Chinook Sugarbeeters and Sunburst Refiners come to mind. Then there are mascots that link the team to a region but not with the same glamour or sense of masculinity as in the Forsyth Dogies or the Augusta Elks.

• When it comes to conveying a sense of masculinity, those teams that hail from a town or area that has a feminine ring to it must be certain to align themselves with a mascot that is unquestionably masculine as in the Geraldine Tigers or the Laurel Locomotives. Imagine if Geraldine were to take on the same mascot name as, say, Bridger—the Scouts. No one would be surprised to hear of Geraldine’s rivals referring to them as the “girl scouts.”

• And then there are those schools and mascot names that rival peanut butter and jelly. You know the folks in Belfry, Montana were bent on getting it right when they gave Belfry High School the Bats as their mascot. And what of the Joliet J-Hawks? No, it’s not “Jayhawks,” but “J-Hawks” where the “J” stands for Joliet! It may be redundant to refer to them as the “Joliet J-Hawks,” but it certainly has a nice ring to it.

Which brings me back to the Anaconda Copperheads. At first that seems like a natural—with all the copper extracted from that part of Montana. However, those who don’t know might ask, “Which is it, an Anaconda snake or a Copperhead snake?” Maybe the good folks in Anaconda were too caught up in the whole snake thing way back when. Perhaps they should have just gone for the “Copper Kings.”

Six-Man’s Biggest Man

Rosebud's Pat Viera

Pat Viera seems oblivious to his size. And why wouldn’t he? Since his birth, he’s been a “big kid”—arriving in the Greenville, N.Y. hospital back in 1986 at 10 pounds, 10 ounces and 22 inches in length. So, after 18-plus years, perhaps it’s to the point where he just doesn’t give it much thought anymore.

Greenville, New York, to Rosebud, Montana? When Pat was very young—following his parents’ divorce—his mother blindly placed her finger on a map of the United States that landed on Forsyth, Montana. Afterwards, she took out an advert in a Forsyth newspaper looking for a “country guy.” Local Kurt Lehti answered the request and the rest was history.

When it comes to football, there are many teams that would like to have a guy like Viera on their front line opening up holes for fleet-footed running backs or clogging up the traps of a well-honed offensive line. But when you play for the Rosebud High School Wranglers in Rosebud, Montana (pop. approximately 150) you play six-man football. And six-man football has much to do with speed. Unfortunately for Pat Viera, a guy that measures five-foot, 11-inches and weighs in at 350 pounds is probably as much disadvantaged in six-man play as he would be advantaged in 11-man play.

Listening to Pat talk about his life on the gridiron, one gets the feeling that if he had a choice, he’d gladly choose his size and play six-man football over another challenge that isn’t quite as obvious but constantly summons him beyond the football field.

When Pat was born, due to complications at birth, his right arm was impaired by Erbs Palsy—a disabling and incurable condition that renders limbs nearly useless. In Viera’s case, he estimates that his arm is about 15 percent functional. And if one looks closely, there is a noticeable size difference between his left and right arm. Sometime around the age of three, he once asked his mother which of her two arms was her “bad” arm.

He’s considering a tattoo on his “good” arm with his last name spelled out on it. When asked why, he simply stated, “The chicks dig it.”

Back on the football field, Viera uses his right arm as a decoy much like a boxer fakes a punch with one hand and throws a real punch with the other. According to Pat, if his opponents are paying attention, they usually solve the mystery of his right arm by the end of the first quarter. Viera might not be in on every tackle or play, but he’s the last guy on the field one would want to lose track of if playing against the Wranglers.

Despite the forces that appear to work against Viera, he isn’t discouraged a bit. Not only is he competitive in football at Rosebud, but also is a member of the basketball and track teams. As he put it regarding life in Rosebud, “What else is there to do?”

I first saw Pat Viera during his sophomore year—it was also Rosebud’s first home football game in 19 years. His physical size wasn’t nearly as shocking as his age, considering he had a full-bearded face (neatly trimmed to a goatee). He looked like a seasoned 25-year-old professional football player.

Now a senior, Pat still considers himself a typical high school student who struggles as much as anyone with the traditional academic rigor of math, sciences and literature. And like any senior, he’s eager to move on past high school and prove himself in the world beyond Rosebud including travels to Europe and other places overseas.

During that first home game, many of the opposing team players challenged one another to knock Viera on his duff—reminiscent of Native American warriors proving their bravery by capturing coup from their enemies. Despite being a marked man that day, each time the indestructible Viera came off the field, he showed no sign of hostility toward the other team. Sometimes he would say, “Man, that guy can really hit” while the Wrangler fans on the sidelines laughed in support.

Later that same year following the homecoming bonfire, Pat was involved in an automobile accident with other Rosebud classmates that seriously damaged his good (left) arm. So serious was it, that Pat could not pull himself from the wreckage because neither arm was capable of grabbing anything. Two schoolmates lifted him to safety and Viera spent the next six months without the use of his good arm. Classmates carried his books and fed him during school hours while his mother fed and bathed him at home.

When asked about his favorite food dishes, his mother’s Puerto Rican rice and seasoned pork tops the list, but as he put it, “It’s hard to beat a good hamburger.”

Forsyth, Montana is the nearest big town (pop. 1,944) where someone from Rosebud can find a fast-food hamburger. Besides burgers, Viera and his classmates make the short trip on any given Saturday night for bowling. Sheepishly, Pat owned up to an unimpressive 110 bowling average.

Viera isn’t quite ready to hang up his cleats yet when it comes to football. He’s hoping for an opportunity to participate in football at the collegiate level, even if it means as a walk-on. One senses that he’s aware of the odds stacked against him. Regardless, when Pat’s football days are truly behind him, he’s hoping to make a difference in people’s lives by serving as a counselor or teacher. No doubt, he’s probably been influential as a role model already amongst the Rosebud community.

Pat Viera is probably one of those individuals who come along every now and then that seems destined for greatness. Two hundred years from now there will probably be a statue of him in the future-to-be town square of Rosebud. In some ways he has already achieved greatness—not so much for his greatness in size, but his greatness in character.

More "Inappropriate" Images

Stanford enters their home field.

I thought these images from the Stanford game might be appropriate at this time before I'm accused of drinking my own blood as well. Again, it wasn't the best day for me, so I'm NOT posting these as a way of saying, "Hey man, look at these great photos!" …because they are not. However, for those Stanford fans who aren't too bitter from my comments, perhaps you'll find some value in these images… or maybe not.

I think it's important to state here that this project isn't really a "sports photo" project, something that could easily be overlooked by those looking for more conventional photo-journalistic coverage. Rather, I think of them as images of our culture through the lens of small town football and that's why I've included images and essays of referees, the towns, the coaches, the gridiron settings and even the happy and sour fans who attend. Some of it's flattering, some of it not. I know everyone won't be happy with my approach, but that happens when one takes on a complex and emotional subject like high school football.

The Stanford band and mascot.

The Wink

Chase Reynolds and his last game as a Drummond Trojan.

It wasn’t much. Even if I had known it was coming I’m not sure how I would have captured the moment with a camera. Nevertheless, it was something I’ll never forget.

The starters for the Montana Class C Eight-Man Championship game were being introduced. Both teams undefeated; the Drummond Trojans vs. the visiting Panthers from Park City. Each team lined up near the middle of the field about 20 yards apart. As each starter was introduced, he would pop out of the lineup, run down to one end and then run the entire length of the lineup, tapping the hand of everyone on his team—kind of like a “low five.” The starter would reach the coaches at the other end and after giving them five, they would run to the center of the field and shake hands with a starting member of the other team. Pretty simple and once you’ve seen this, they all seem the same.

But today there was a subtle difference. Chase Reynolds the starting tailback and middle linebacker for the Drummond Trojans was finally being introduced. Reynolds had been starting in both positions since his sophomore year and earned all state honors all three years. Today would be the last time he was introduced at Drummond’s field in the blue and white of a Trojan uniform.

He ran through the lineup like everyone else. I was positioned near the end of the line by the coaches photographing each starter’s approach. Once my camera’s memory was filled with images, I pulled it away from my eye as he neared the coaches. Now in front of head coach Jim Oberweiser, he clutched the coaches hand for a brief handshake and through his buckled helmet and gridded face-mask gave the coach a pronounced wink of confidence. It was one of those moments where time stood still. I doubt many people saw it. Yet, like a complex artwork that is often interpreted differently by everyone who looks at it—that one wink spoke volumes.

As I saw it, perhaps coach Oberweiser was a typical coach—worried about how the game would turn out no matter how much talent his kids possessed. And there was Reynolds—grown up for the most part now. Well beyond the pure talent of his sophomore year that earned him a starting position. Now there was a sense of seasoning—call it maturity. As a senior he had evolved into the hardened, battle-tested general who had just come from the field and was now heading back into another battle one last time. He had seen it all and his mission was nearly over. With that wink, came a message to his commanding officer, “Don’t worry sir, we’ll get the job done today. It’s business as usual.”

And so it was—business as usual that day. Reynolds and his fellow Trojans marched into the record books—easily disposing of previously undefeated Park City to the tune of 54-0. Two years ago Drummond had won their first state title in football. Not one game was lost between that first title season and the title they claimed against Park City. In fact, they were never seriously challenged during those three seasons—not one game’s outcome was ever in doubt when the Trojans lined-up for their introductions.

Abandoned

Alberton field, post-season.

1 December 2002

When I come across a high school football field during the off season I always think about the ghosts that dwell there—the ghosts born from glorious victories and heartbreaking defeats. Often I find myself pausing to hear the faint cheers and moans from seasons past echoing off of the mountains in the distance. Sometimes I find myself reliving a play of my past—where I actually re-run that same route on the same location of the field just as it happened way back when.

During these visits, I sometimes see the field as an abandoned relic while other times it is the stage that has been set for a late-season playoff game where winter’s hand is introduced as a major element in the outcome of an upcoming contest. Regardless, sooner or later all gridirons are abandoned until the next season.

In the course of a year I’ve been fascinated with a gridiron’s diet of activity—a few great feasts and then a long famine until the next season commences. The feasts are seven days (at best) consisting of the rich autumn settings provided by Friday nights or Saturday afternoons. The famines that follow are clearly defined by the long, cold winters without a single event. Even the practice field sees more activity during the season although it is bland in comparison to the savory offerings of game day.

The off-seasons only bring the occasional lone visitor like myself stopping in to rekindle a memory or two from the previous or past seasons much like an individual stopping in at a church during the middle of the weekday because they feel as though Sunday won’t come soon enough. And certainly many of these gridirons set in the more scenic areas of Wyoming and Montana could be thought of as sanctuaries or alters to the game. If Notre Dame Stadium is the St. Peter’s of gridiron football, then any of the fields in towns like Alberton, Custer or Highwood are the little wayside chapels found in the wilderness.

This morning while walking the field in Powell, I considered the lifelong memories fields like this have provided over the years. Like a graveyard, it seems so abandoned—so forgotten and overlooked despite the space it takes up. How can something so instrumental—so focused upon in a community during any given autumn weekend become so abolished in appearance? Given all the memories generated at such a facility, it seems realistic that those who consider themselves retired from the game would feel obligated to drop in on a gridiron in their retirement—kind of like a brotherhood to the game or maintaining a vigil for a sick loved one in the hospital.

On this cold, early December day—with another season just completed—I stood in the south end zone of Powell’s gridiron (as a former player myself) listening for the thundering cleats, the popping of shoulder pads, the cheers of the home crowd or the commanding cries of a quarterback and wondering if my visit has made any difference in this gridiron’s seemingly inanimate but sometimes glorious existence. I imagine all the other fields I’ve been to on those glorious game days and what they are like now, so much further away and beyond my reach they seem—how would I see them in their winter solitude?

Stanford's Hospitality

The occasional pains of the game at Stanford.

In the eight years that I’ve been shooting small town high school football in Wyoming and Montana, I’ve never felt there was any intentional hostility directed towards me as a result of photographing a football game. I suppose the element of danger is always there such as an out of control running back getting bumped out of bounds in a shooter’s direction. While in the college and pro ranks many sports-related photographers are hated for their “stalking” of various individuals or getting a little too close with their equipment to someone who has come unglued in the heat of the game. But in my mind, these kind of dramas would never unfold during a football contest in small town America. And for the most part I would be correct with the exception of one particular game in Stanford, Montana this past season.

I’d been meaning to photograph a game at Stanford for years when passing through the small community on my way to towns like Centerville, Geraldine, and games further north and west. I’d even stayed overnight at a local motel on a couple of occasions and ate my breakfast at the Wolves Den restaurant. The Stanford gridiron was no stranger to me either as I had stopped by a few times to look at the angles that might present themselves during any future home game. So finally in 2005, I decided to travel to Stanford when they hosted one of the two semi-final games in Montana Class C eight-man football. I was looking forward to the event.

Earlier in the season, I had overheard several Drummond fans praising Stanford’s hospitality at last year’s title game despite Drummond thumping the Wolves on their home field. Upon my arrival with family in tow for the 2005 semifinal game, the generous hospitality I had heard about appeared to be intact. We were told while paying admission that there was a tent set up by the school and they were serving free chili and brownies inside. The only thing that was unpleasant at that point was the steady cold wind blowing out of the north and west, but things would turn ugly for me by the second quarter.

As expected, the Drummond Trojans came to town and wasted no time in informing the Stanford Wolves football team and fans that the visitors’ undefeated record would remain intact on that day. By the end of the first quarter, it seemed pretty hopeless for Stanford and when Drummond scored two more times in the second quarter, the festive feeling of the day started to wane with the Stanford fans—albeit to different degrees.

During this second quarter, one of the Wolves starters came off the field and collapsed on the sidelines where I happened to be shooting—it didn’t seem serious as no one was attending him, but undoubtedly he was experiencing some pain.

Knowing pain and injuries are part of the game, I directed the camera at the injured player and tripped the shutter a couple of times. As I remember it now, I felt good about the images because the background was decent and from my angle his face couldn’t be seen nor his jersey number detected. Yet, a handful of soured Stanford fans behind me didn’t see it that way nor did one of their assistant coaches.

The first words I heard were something like, “Hey, you don’t need to take his picture.” I’m not sure if it came first from the fans behind me or the coach on the sidelines. Regardless, I addressed the coach first and told him that what I was shooting was part of the game. Simple as that.

“It’s part of the game, coach.”

I certainly wasn’t attempting to get the players full-blown anguish and pain by sticking the camera in his face. Nevertheless, that didn’t matter to the hecklers behind me who ratcheted up their banter another notch.

My biggest fans at Stanford.

One yahoo in particular said, “How’d you like that camera shoved down your throat,” along with something like, “Keep it up and we’ll run your ass out of town,” from another.
I was slightly amused and surprised—definitely rattled at this point.

“Wow, a modern day lynch mob right here in Stanford, Montana,” I thought to myself.

I stood up, walked over to the goon who had threatened me and simply said, “Is that right?”

I made sure I was far enough from the fence line that he wouldn’t reach over in an attempt to smack me or take a swipe at the camera. Despite my perseverance to convince him that it was all part of the game—not just the action on the gridiron, he must have only seen me as an obnoxious paparazzi shooter. Insults continued to fly from him and his cronies. Finally, I was fed up with them and stepped back from the crowd and said, “As a matter of fact, you’re part of the game as well," and began to peel off a couple frames of Stanford’s peanut gallery.

The remainder of the game, I was very cognizant of those around me, especially when I left the sidelines, but no one bothered me after the second quarter encounter nor did anyone attempt to “run me out of town.”

Undoubtedly, this adventure in hostility illustrates that all it takes is a couple of bad apples to ruin one’s experience. Yet, I know this should not be grounds to generalize an entire community like Stanford.

In my home town of Powell, Wyoming, everyone around here talks about how friendly everyone is in town—as if there is no other town like it when it comes to such friendliness. And they say it with so much conviction and in such a way that you would rain on their parade if you were to challenge their claim. So, you let it go. Yet, this happens everywhere, doesn’t it? Every town—especially the small ones—believe they are slightly above the rest when it comes to warmth and friendliness.

But the truth is—for the most part—all of these small towns are warm and friendly; and in each of them probably lurks a few individuals that are capable of disproving such claims single-handedly. Like Powell, Wyoming, surely the good folks in Stanford, Montana think of their small community as warm and friendly, including the tough-talking peanut gallery at the football game.

Stanford Peanut Gallery

My biggest fans.

The Peanut Gallery at Stanford. After pointing the camera at an injuried Stanford player on the sidelines, this is the group who told me I had no business taking his picture. The guy with the cute white gloves asked me if I'd like to have the camera rammed down my throat. A modern day lynch mob of sorts. Please don't consider these clowns as typical Stanford folks.

Six-Man World Peace

Belfry and Lima players in prayer after playoff game.

Sunday 13 October 2002

When I woke up this morning to my clock-radio and the news about the car bomb blast in Bali that claimed over 180 lives, the first thing that went through my mind wasn’t the innocent people that were lost, and it wasn’t about what is so wrong with this world. Rather, I thought about the innocence and euphoria of yesterday—standing on the sidelines in the scenic surroundings of Lima, Montana, watching a classic small town, high school, six-man football game between the Lima Bears and the Belfry Bats. I considered how much better off the world would be if everyone in it could have joined me in Lima somehow without loosing that small town atmosphere of the day.

Funny as it may sound, but there are days like today when I truly believe that the deliverer of world peace is a six-man or eight-man football game nestled in some by-passed Montana town like Lima, Centerville or Rosebud.

Perhaps all I’m talking about here are the simple joyous moments one can sense in these small town football games. For example, even after their team was soundly defeated by Belfry yesterday, the home town crowd of Lima (pop. 242) applauded when the game ended. I suspect they weren’t simply applauding for their team, but on a sub-conscience level perhaps they were acknowledging this magical event they had just witnessed—set on a glorious, warm autumn afternoon with the Beaverhead Mountains of the Continental Divide serving as a backdrop to the gridiron.

And if that didn’t give one hope for some kind of universal harmony then perhaps it was the two teams kneeling together midfield after the game, giving thanks for the day and its injury-free outcome. Upon the completion of a victorious match, the Belfry players always invite their defeated opponents to kneel with them in the middle of the field to offer up thanks. On the surface it appears this act is nothing more than a gesture of good sportsmanship, but after the news of this morning I’m certain there is something much deeper there. Sometimes the players from the other team are a bit puzzled at first, but once they understand, the look of defeat leaves their faces and for that moment under the bright Montana sky, in the stillness and near silence, a single voice rises above this gathering of opposing teams, and all is right with the world.

Plato's Theory of Forms and Six-Man Football

The seven-member, six-man Willow Creek Broncs.

One of Plato’s more notable observations of our world has to do with his theory of forms or ideas. Bertrand Russell discussed this in his History of Western Philosophy with the following:
Here Plato explains that, whenever a number of individuals have a common name, they have also a common “idea” or “form.” For instance, though there are many beds, there is only one “idea” or “form” of a bed. Just as a reflection of a bed in a mirror is only apparent and not “real,” so the various particular beds are unreal, being only copies of the “idea,” which is the one real bed, and is made by God. Of this one bed, made by God, there can be knowledge, but in respect of the many beds made by carpenters there can be only opinion. The philosopher, as such, will be interested only in the one ideal bed, not in the many beds found in the sensible world. He will have a certain indifference to ordinary mundane affairs: “how can he who has magnificence of mind and is the spectator of all time and all existence, think much of human life?”

Take this quote and substitute references to the game of football for “bed” and this is how it might read:
…There are many games of football, but there is only one form of a football game. Just as a televised broadcast of a football game is only apparent and not “real,” so the various games that are played at any given time are unreal, being only copies of the “idea of the game,” which is the one real football game, and is made by God. Of this game of football, made by God, there can be knowledge, but in respect of the many games of football composed of the multitude of players, coaches, and referees there can only be opinion. The philosopher, as such, will be interested only in the one ideal football game, not in the many games that can be found in the sensible world. He will have a certain indifference to ordinary mundane contests: “How can he who has magnificence of mind and is the spectator of all football and all existence, think much of pre-game hype and post-game drama?”

Plato would have loved six-man high school football.

This stripped-down version of football results in a game centered around the basic elements—dare I say “form”—of the game: solid tackling, good ball-handling, proper execution of play, and speed. These fundamental elements are often overlooked or hidden behind all the extraneous and more attention-demanding material that can accompany a game—especially at the professional level. Therefore we can concur that football is always purest and thus closest to its form if the various elements of “fluff” are eliminated such as the instant replay, marching bands, the clever athlete-endorsed commercials, the play-by-play analysis of John Madden, cheerleaders, trivial statistics, the computerized and oversized scoreboards, the gigantic stadiums, and yes, five players from each team. This is football’s form.

Flicker

An idle Friday autumn night at Hysham.

On some evenings I run the track at night over at the high school nearby. It’s usually one of those occasions when I haven’t found or made the time to work out during the daylight hours—a common occurance during the shortened days of the winter months. Seldom is anyone present during these odd hours.

As I make my way around the 400 meter oval in what is typically a 1600 or 3200 meter run, my mind can drift almost anywhere. Rarely will I consider the quality of my workout—rather I just hope for it to end quickly.

As I shuffle down the backstretch in my painfully slow pace, my rescue from the tedium comes in the form of a flicker of light above me—just above me. From the corner of my eye a flash will catch my attention. This light is nothing more than a reflection coming from the smooth surface of the stadium floodlights aimed at the gridiron. The reflection’s source is likely one of the nearby security lights of the school or streetlights beyond the fence.

Despite the easy and logical explanation, I’m transported during that instant to some game in the past. Other times I visualize the flicker above as the start of another Friday night football game—where once the lights come up to full power, the fans start making their way to the stands, the teams take to the field for their pre-game warm-ups, and before long the referees are blowing their whistles to beckon the opening kickoff of another game. I suppose during that frozen moment in time these uneventful evening runs become my Field of Dreams.

Sheridan's Valor

The Sheridan Defense holding their own at Big Sandy.

The Northern Rocky Mountains dominate the horizon in every direction around towns like Sheridan, Montana. It's probable that such backdrops motivated the territory's settlers to come up with this naming of America's fourth largest state. According to the 2000 U.S. Census, 659 people call Sheridan home. I haven't walked the streets there, but I've seen their high school football team play twice in as many weeks. If you plopped me down in the middle of town and removed my blindfold, I wouldn't know where I was, but I'd recognize the Sheridan football team in their practice uniforms on any given gridiron.

My introduction to the Sheridan Panthers came last week when I saw them play in the first round of the Class C Eight-Man playoffs at undefeated Alberton. As they assembled on the field in Alberton for warm ups, I thought of them as lucky to even be in the playoffs. Early in the regular season they lost to a mediocre team from Noxon, and then in the last game of the year, they were pummeled by undefeated Drummond. Turns out they were the only team to tally any kind of score against Drummond during the entire season—a meager, single touchdown.

In last year's playoffs, Sheridan faced an undefeated and colossal team from Harlowton, beating them in the first round and finally bowing out in the semi-finals to the eventual state champs from Scobey.
By the end of last week's game with Alberton, I could see they were a gutsy team with plenty of heart. Many people like myself didn't believe in them, but they clearly believed in themselves as they smothered Alberton's hopes for a state title, providing the only blemish to their near-perfect season. As ironic as it may be, but Harlowton came to know Sheridan in the same way last year—maybe it has something to do with towns that end with "t-o-n."

Like many distinguished teams I've seen in the past, Sheridan does not make a memorable first impression. I recall my introduction to another notable team from Cokeville—title holders of the Wyoming Class 1A three years running; I thought they were a junior varsity team. Six-Man powerhouse Geraldine also seemed very average at first glance. So, here was this team from Sheridan—few in numbers, and not one guy on the team weighed over 200 pounds. In fact, most of the starting players were within 20 pounds of each other. I reckoned they were all capable of playing in each other's positions. They were the most homogenized team I'd ever seen.

I wasn't very keen in travelling the 300-plus miles to Big Sandy for their quarterfinal playoffs game against Sheridan. However, of all the games that Saturday, Big Sandy was the only field I hadn't visited, and I felt compelled to get another Montana Class C location listed in my football travels.
Nevertheless, it was hard to get excited to see two teams play that I'd seen in the recent past—Sheridan just the week before at Alberton and earlier in the year I'd seen the undefeated Pioneers of Big Sandy play in one of their many lopsided victories at Heart Butte. The Pioneers were impressive, but it was difficult to gauge the depth of their talent against a team that was no match for them.

If I were attending for the sheer rush of a game's excitement, I probably would have opted for the battle of undefeateds between Drummond and Belt over Big Sandy's contest with Sheridan. And this is what I have to deal with almost every week: my ongoing, internal struggles in deciding where I should go vs. where I want to go when it comes to small town high school football.

Over the past seven years while chasing down the varied small town high school football games, I've often come to these crossroads regarding game selections. Time and again it seems like the game I choose is influenced by some kind of project objective, but is often the least appealing while the most attractive game has more promise of excitement or possibly more at stake in its outcome. Yet, I've never walked away disappointed from any of the games I chose with my head rather than my heart. Usually something unfolds that I never could have predicted, thus justifying my decision.

This past week's game between Big Sandy and Sheridan was no exception. Although Big Sandy's victory was no surprise, I came away from the game completely won over by the scrappy team from Sheridan. They provided the finest display of tackling and defensive pursuit I'd seen in years. Big Sandy possessed at least three starters that were clearly larger than any of Sheridan's players, yet the Panther defense was relentless and ferocious in their gang tackling and laser-guided hits on the Pioneer ball carriers. Apparently no one told them that Big Sandy was a larger team. I imagine the undefeated Pioneers never felt more beaten following any of their previous victories.

When the final seconds ticked away on the game clock in Big Sandy, the scoreboard displayed 32-14 in favor of the Pioneers, but in my opinion, Sheridan was the better team pound for pound. Perhaps they only lacked that one stellar member on their team that would give them an edge, but none could be exploited as a weak link in their chain of play. They were a solidified and complete eight-man team. Their downfall on that Saturday for the most part came from offensive misques and turnovers.

In true small town football fashion, Big Sandy's coach Scot Chauvet made a point to visit the somber huddle of Sheridan players after the game and spoke graciously about what a class act they brought to the game. He told them how he prepared his team for Sheridan during the previous week, warning the Pioneers of Sheridan's big-hearted playing style. He also conveyed to the defeated squad that they had no reason to hang their heads low—they had played a great game.
At the other end of the field, the Big Sandy celebration was growing, and it was clear Coach Chauvet was expected to be there. So, off he went after his brief but profound speech. I wish he would have stayed longer—long enough to look each Sheridan player squarely in the eye as he spoke because his words rang so true. In his hurried state, I could only hope the coach's comments were interpreted as forthright and sincere rather than a passing and polite gesture.

Sometime next summer, I think I'll wander over to Sheridan and have a look around for an hour or two. I can't imagine such a visit will clear up or explain any particulars regarding the 2003 Panther football team, but at least I'll feel like I have some authority when I speak of their playoff valor. (—November 2003)

Highwood's New Lights

Lights at Ekalaka.

The night Highwood hosted Geraldine in the annual six-man battle of Chouteau County, I found myself driving in from Great Falls. I had been to Rocky Boy earlier that day for another six-man game and with ample time on hand, I decided to check into my hotel room in nearby Great Falls.

After freshening up a bit in my room, I headed for Highwood—a short 30 mile trek. The darkness was rapidly taking over the grayness from that rainy day and by the time I reached the outskirts of Great Falls, my Mazda rocketship was heading into one of the darkest sectors of the universe. The rain fell steadily on that messy night—reminescent of my youth in the cold and dank winters of Northeast Ohio. Conditions seemed to deteriorate the farther I drove from Great Falls. Fog settled in thick patches along the route—some so heavy, it seem as though I was driving blind.

Through my peripheral vision, I remember detecting a faint light in the black abyss surrounding me as I focused on the road ahead. When I looked in the source's direction, I saw nothing—as if a glowing spaceship attempted to stay hidden in the netherworld before me. But the soft light became stronger despite the thick fog as the road drew me nearer to Highwood.

Had I been a stranger to these surroundings, I would have thought something fantastic was unfolding up ahead—something the world would read about in the newspapers the next day. And though I knew its source, a mysterious quality radiated from the new gridiron lights at Highwood. Like the star that guided wise men to Bethlehem, these lights formed a single beacon guiding all fans of the game to this gridiron shrine of six-man football.

Many other games were played that same night all over Montana, but Highwood's newly lit gridiron proved the most brilliant of all diamonds laying on the state's bed of black velvet.