If you watch it long enough, football – the game, played as it should be played – exhibits a remarkable consistency. Whether it's 1954, or 2009, when the best teams are involved, it comes down to making a play.
In Waco, on Saturday, the Klein Bearkats made a couple of plays. With nine seconds left in the game, the Bearkats were on their own seven-yard line, trailing, 29-21. In those nine seconds, with no time-outs, they made it from their seven to the Abilene High one. Going 92 yards in three plays (one a spike to stop the clock) in sudden-death is a stunning example of football's consistency at the playoff level.
Then Abilene made a play – a bigger play – and, with it, won the game that put them into the state championship versus Katy next Saturday. With no time left, a Klein receiver made a catch at the Eagles' 13 and fought toward the end zone. The Eagles made the tackle at the one-yard line, ending the game much the same as an Eagle team 55 years earlier had ended a big game.
In 1954, Abilene was playing Houston's Stephen F. Austin High School, in Houston, for the state championship of Class AAAA. The score was tied, 7-7, and Austin had just missed a short field goal. Abilene got the ball at the 20-yard-line with 5:49 left in the fourth quarter. Coach Chuck Moser was not optimistic. "I didn't think we could score again," he said. "It seemed like everything was turning against us."
Instead, the Eagles, led by quarterback H.P. Hawkins, stormed 79 yards to the Austin one-yard line. It was third down. Hawkins dived straight ahead on a quarterback sneak and crossed the goal line. But then the ball was rolling free. The Mustangs recovered in the end zone. The officials huddled, ruled it a fumble, and awarded the Mustangs the ball at the 20. The Eagle offense came off the field and Hawkins trotted up to Moser.
"I expected him to come out of the game heartbroken, maybe even in tears," Moser said. "I was afraid he'd lose his confidence. But instead he came up to me, put his arm on my shoulder, and said, 'Don't worry, Coach, I'll get a touchdown for you.' "
Here, from my book, "Warbirds – How They Played the Game," is the way the rest of the game went:
"The Eagle defense, playing ferociously, stopped the Mustangs on three downs and Matthews had to punt into the wind. On the crisscross return play, Henry Colwell wound up with the ball at the Eagle 45 and found a lane down the sideline. He ran 55 yards and scored easily with 2:40 remaining in the game.
"Eagle fans erupted as Colwell sprinted toward the end zone, but back upfield, there was a flag. Abilene was called for clipping. In barely a minute, the Eagles had had two touchdowns called back. The referee stepped off the penalty and placed the ball on the ground at the Abilene 31-yard line. If there was to be Eagle tenacity, this was the time for it. One more time, the Eagle offense came back onto the field. On the scoreboard behind the end zone, the clock showed 2:40. A state championship was 69 yards away.
"Eagle left end Twyman Ash, No. 81, during the season had earned a nickname, 'Old Glue Fingers,' because the tall blond senior who was also a starter on the Eagles’ basketball team never dropped a pass. In the championship game, Hawkins had gone to him only once. But now, with the title on the line, Hawkins threw twice to Ash, once for 38 yards and again for 17. After five plays, the Eagles were poised at the Mustang 16, with a little over a minute left on the clock.
"Hawkins called another pass. He took the snap and rolled right. Colwell, split to the right, went down and out. Millerman from his left halfback position went straight down the field between the safeties. Ash followed along behind and found himself open. But Mustang defenders had caught Hawkins. They threw him for a 13-yard loss back to the 29-yard line.
"Now there were 56 seconds left. Ash trotted back to the huddle and told Hawkins he could get open again. “We were trying to split their safeties,” Hawkins said. “We had a split to the right, Twyman on the left and Jim (Millerman) running a flag up the middle to split the safeties.” Hawkins called the same play. On the sideline, sophomore Glynn Gregory was getting ready to try a field goal.
"The Eagles came to the line. Hawkins took the snap and rolled right. Both Colwell and Millerman were covered. Mustang coach Kotrola had dropped one of his defensive ends into secondary coverage, giving him five defenders covering three receivers. 'The first two guys weren’t open,' Hawkins said. Then he saw Ash at the five-yard line. He threw.
"The ball was high, but Ash leaped, arched his back and snared the ball on his fingertips between two defenders. On the sideline, Reporter-News photographer Don Hutcheson caught No. 81 in that fully extended instant that became probably the most reproduced photo in Abilene media history.
"As he came down, Ash had a step on the defenders and hustled five yards into the end zone. There were no flags. The Eagles led, 13-7. On the sideline, the Eagles were jumping up and down. Someone in the excitement came back with an elbow that caught Moser squarely on the brow above his eye, splitting it open. Blood gushed, but Moser quickly found a towel and pressed on the gash as he watched Hawkins kick the extra point to make it 14-7.
"The Victory Bell rang and rang. A drained crowd watched the Eagles kick off and bat away the Mustangs’ last efforts and then it was over. The Abilene Eagles were the Class AAAA state champions . . . . "
Abilene went on to win two more state championships, in 1955 and '56. Now, 53 years later, the Eagles have an opportunity to win another. It remains to be seen if they will. But at Waco, on Saturday, they showed they have the old consistency.
December 13, 2009
December 12, 2009
November 23, 2009
Under Treatment
Last Friday was a bizarre day.
I had had a cold all week, but still looking forward to going to Denver. Tyler had 50-yard-line tickets to the Chargers-Broncos game and had asked me to come visit him and Kathleen and go to the game. Friday morning, getting up and getting ready to go to the airport, I actually felt better. But as Karen drove me down, I felt some real congestion starting up.
She let me out, I got into a curbside line, but was coughing so hard I had to step out of line twice. I couldn't get my breath and felt like I might throw up. I started to feel totally isolated, alone in a crowd. I got upstairs and through security, but on the concourse it really hit me. It felt like I had a column of warm, salty water, bubbling in my windpipe, and it was coming up to drown me. Coughing did no good. The water was right there, bubbling just beneath my throat, and I couldn't breathe.
I stopped and sat down. I envied the people passing by, completely unconcerned with their health or immediate future. I had my boarding pass in my pocket but realized that I was not going to get on the airplane. My seat was 25A, and I could see one of these futile coughing fits starting up as the plane left the gate, and I could not get up to go the restroom and put my head between my legs to let the mucus drain and get some air.
I took my pass up to the gate and handed it to the boarding agent. "I am sick and can't go on your airplane today." I called Karen to come get me. "You're kidding!" she said, knowing how I had looked forward to this trip. Tyler and I had been figuring menus all week, and he had asked me for a recipe for elk chili. I made one up and sent it to him, without any confidence it would be edible.
An hour later Karen and I were on the phone to Kaiser, begging to see my primary care physician. When I told the screening nurse what had happened, she referred me straight to the emergency room. I felt so bad for Karen; she had been looking forward to some quiet time, and now this. Talking to the registration nurse, I could barely breathe. Half an hour later, in Bed 13 of Module D in the emergency area, a nice, engaging doctor named Chiang confirmed I had pneumonia. "But I had a pneumonia shot last year," I said. He shrugged. "There are different types of pneumonia."
He and a wonderful nurse named Rhonda took care of me, getting xrays, studying histories, taking blood cultures out of one arm and feeding antibiotics into the other. I told her I had really wanted to be on an airplane on this particular morning, but the way I felt, this emergency room, under her care, was really the place for me to be. And then I had an epiphany. Money is the combat issue in the health care debate, but to anyone in a situation like mine, there are two words that are priceless: "under treatment." Until those two words are available, on any given day, to any given citizen, this country is not prioritizing correctly.
I had had a cold all week, but still looking forward to going to Denver. Tyler had 50-yard-line tickets to the Chargers-Broncos game and had asked me to come visit him and Kathleen and go to the game. Friday morning, getting up and getting ready to go to the airport, I actually felt better. But as Karen drove me down, I felt some real congestion starting up.
She let me out, I got into a curbside line, but was coughing so hard I had to step out of line twice. I couldn't get my breath and felt like I might throw up. I started to feel totally isolated, alone in a crowd. I got upstairs and through security, but on the concourse it really hit me. It felt like I had a column of warm, salty water, bubbling in my windpipe, and it was coming up to drown me. Coughing did no good. The water was right there, bubbling just beneath my throat, and I couldn't breathe.
I stopped and sat down. I envied the people passing by, completely unconcerned with their health or immediate future. I had my boarding pass in my pocket but realized that I was not going to get on the airplane. My seat was 25A, and I could see one of these futile coughing fits starting up as the plane left the gate, and I could not get up to go the restroom and put my head between my legs to let the mucus drain and get some air.
I took my pass up to the gate and handed it to the boarding agent. "I am sick and can't go on your airplane today." I called Karen to come get me. "You're kidding!" she said, knowing how I had looked forward to this trip. Tyler and I had been figuring menus all week, and he had asked me for a recipe for elk chili. I made one up and sent it to him, without any confidence it would be edible.
An hour later Karen and I were on the phone to Kaiser, begging to see my primary care physician. When I told the screening nurse what had happened, she referred me straight to the emergency room. I felt so bad for Karen; she had been looking forward to some quiet time, and now this. Talking to the registration nurse, I could barely breathe. Half an hour later, in Bed 13 of Module D in the emergency area, a nice, engaging doctor named Chiang confirmed I had pneumonia. "But I had a pneumonia shot last year," I said. He shrugged. "There are different types of pneumonia."
He and a wonderful nurse named Rhonda took care of me, getting xrays, studying histories, taking blood cultures out of one arm and feeding antibiotics into the other. I told her I had really wanted to be on an airplane on this particular morning, but the way I felt, this emergency room, under her care, was really the place for me to be. And then I had an epiphany. Money is the combat issue in the health care debate, but to anyone in a situation like mine, there are two words that are priceless: "under treatment." Until those two words are available, on any given day, to any given citizen, this country is not prioritizing correctly.
November 12, 2009
Stretch Cooking: The skillet pork fat starter
I'm not sure I want you to try this at home, but I want to tell you about a cooking technique that worked for me, and it is one I will use again, maybe with one modification.
It started with four big country-style pork ribs, but you could also use pork shoulder or baby back ribs. Any other cut would be too lean. I seasoned the country-style ribs with salt and pepper, put them in an 11-inch cast iron skillet, and baked them for three hours in a 250-degree oven. They came out tender, crunchy and delicious.
I put the skillet on the range and didn't think about it until the next day. I was about to wash it when I saw quite a bit of nice fat and jellied juices in the skillet. That evening, I heated the skillet on the range, just above medium. I had two leftover ribs. I cut each into two pieces and fried them in the leftover fat. They came out better than the original ribs, crunchy and redolent, true carnivore candy.
"Hmmm," I said. Karen, who might have balked at this sort of idea, was out of town for a few days. So I decided to leave the skillet on the range, covered, for another day. The next day I fried bacon in the fat. Delicious. In the evening, I fried a couple of slices of pork loin in the fat. Delicious. On Sunday, I cut a thick chunk of sirloin into two thinner slices (thus doubling the area for the crunch effect) and fried them in the fat and had them with some black-eyed peas. Delicious.
It reminded me of bakers and their sourdough starters. You can keep a sourdough starter around for years. Why couldn't you keep a black skillet of pork fat around for years? Or at least weeks. Or days. At this point, I would remind health officials that in the first paragraph, I said I wasn't sure I would want anyone to try this at home. I certainly, however, plan to do it again, this time starting with some of that great CostCo pork shoulder.
The modification: I'll keep the skillet of fat in the refrigerator, covered with foil, between uses. I am seriously considering dedicating one of my black skillets to this theme full-time. If Karen will let me.
I know I have not blogged in awhile. I am going to start again, but with different material. I had hoped to grow readership with the old format, which I put in place last spring. But it didn't happen. Starting next week, I'll be posting columns written during my 20 years at The San Diego Union, plus some graynation material as it materializes, and of course the various cooking adventures.
I will use the available time to write novels. This is the time to learn to write novels, and write one, before I die. I have a couple under way, including one that has really focused my attention. I hope someday it will focus yours.
It started with four big country-style pork ribs, but you could also use pork shoulder or baby back ribs. Any other cut would be too lean. I seasoned the country-style ribs with salt and pepper, put them in an 11-inch cast iron skillet, and baked them for three hours in a 250-degree oven. They came out tender, crunchy and delicious.
I put the skillet on the range and didn't think about it until the next day. I was about to wash it when I saw quite a bit of nice fat and jellied juices in the skillet. That evening, I heated the skillet on the range, just above medium. I had two leftover ribs. I cut each into two pieces and fried them in the leftover fat. They came out better than the original ribs, crunchy and redolent, true carnivore candy.
"Hmmm," I said. Karen, who might have balked at this sort of idea, was out of town for a few days. So I decided to leave the skillet on the range, covered, for another day. The next day I fried bacon in the fat. Delicious. In the evening, I fried a couple of slices of pork loin in the fat. Delicious. On Sunday, I cut a thick chunk of sirloin into two thinner slices (thus doubling the area for the crunch effect) and fried them in the fat and had them with some black-eyed peas. Delicious.
It reminded me of bakers and their sourdough starters. You can keep a sourdough starter around for years. Why couldn't you keep a black skillet of pork fat around for years? Or at least weeks. Or days. At this point, I would remind health officials that in the first paragraph, I said I wasn't sure I would want anyone to try this at home. I certainly, however, plan to do it again, this time starting with some of that great CostCo pork shoulder.
The modification: I'll keep the skillet of fat in the refrigerator, covered with foil, between uses. I am seriously considering dedicating one of my black skillets to this theme full-time. If Karen will let me.
I know I have not blogged in awhile. I am going to start again, but with different material. I had hoped to grow readership with the old format, which I put in place last spring. But it didn't happen. Starting next week, I'll be posting columns written during my 20 years at The San Diego Union, plus some graynation material as it materializes, and of course the various cooking adventures.
I will use the available time to write novels. This is the time to learn to write novels, and write one, before I die. I have a couple under way, including one that has really focused my attention. I hope someday it will focus yours.
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