A SILVER BADGE

From the first day I was old enough to  walk to school and waited for the student crossing guard to send me across a street, I wanted to be a member of the AAA Safety Patrol!  (To be honest, I wasn’t as interested in the safety of my classmates crossing  quiet Streets of Millville as I was in getting an official patrol boy web belt with a real badge that you got to keep - and 60 years later mine is still in my jewelry box!)  But just wanting did not guarantee getting this honored position.  To be  made a guard one had to be nominated by you teacher because you had displayed “good citizenship” and better than average grades.  (Note:  Patrol “Boys” were appointed at the end of their fourth grade year ( In the 1950s only “boys” because most educators and most parents thought girls were much too fragile to stand outside in the cold until the late bell rang. Thankfully that is not the practice today)

During the last week of my 4th grade year Miss R. asked, “Would anyone like to be considered for this duty.  And only 2 hands shot up and one was mine - safety patrol duty was a big commitment that few wanted to do because you had to get up early every day for the whole school year. With just one competitor, for the last few days of class I was on my best behavior and made sure my mom bought a nice “Thank You” card for Miss R.  Plus, on the last day of school I took one of my grandmother’s prized African Violets in a pot wrapped in tinfoil, a gift which I hope would cement my endorsement to our Principal who made the final decision. 

All that  summer I thought about the badge!  A couple of weeks before school started again, Mom got an official letter from the Millville Board of Education informing her that I had been appointed to the Safety Patrol and that I was to report to the Millville Police Department for training.  I was jubilant - but my mother wasn’t.  She said, “You know you’ll have to get up early every morning...and never be late if you take this job?”  Among many worries, she always worried about my propensity for lateness and the amount of sleep I accrued each night.   I assured her that I was ready and willing to diligently do my duty.  On the appointed evening I reported to the City Hall with a bunch of boys from all of the elementary schools in our city - a couple of dozen new recruits. 

The police chief welcomed us and introduced us to a policeman who stressed that we were about to "embark" on a very serious task.  In other words, no fooling around on duty.   First up we saw a film about speeding cars, distracted drivers and the horribly outcomes of not looking both ways!  A lot of this stuff I already knew as I had walked to school with a brigade of whooping kids since first grade when my grandmother stopped “walking” me to school - she walked with me to make sure I actually stayed there after she left me.  

Next the officer had us stand and practice the way we would stop and cross the students safely.  All posts were displayed on a big map.  And lastly, we were ordered to stand, raise our right hands and take the pledge…

“I  swear to perform my duties faithfully. Strive to prevent accidents, always setting a good example myself. Obey my teachers and officers of my school  patrol. Report dangerous student practices. And strive to earn the respect of fellow students.

Then the moment I had been waiting for, the Officer presented us with a white web belt and badge and I was now a certified Patrol Boy Guard! 

The first day of school I wore it proudly over a new school clothes shirt.  I reported to my“post” a few blocks from my house and the only cross street on the way. My task was to cross  about a dozen sleepy-eyed daily crossers.  Our 6th grade Captain rode by on his bike and told us his Lieutenant would be visiting each post during the coming week to make sure we were doing everything required for safe crossings.  When my first crossers came to my corner I stopped them with a stern and simple  command - STOP! My arms outstretched just like we learned on the film - I had practiced it for a half hour in front of a mirror.   The student stopped immediately because if he didn’t I could report him to the principal and he would face the fate of an unsafe crosser.  Several more students lined up behind him. (BTW he was my competition for the job)

My major task was to be on the lookout for a kid who might bolt and wildly dart across  the street risking life and limb.  I looked both ways and professionally barked, “You may proceed...and have a nice day.”  The group groaned in unison and continued trudging to another day of readin, writin and  etc!.  I was sure they all thought they were much too “big” to have a patrol boy telling them the road was empty for miles.  However, both coming and going my charges obeyed my “directions” and  my worries disappeared because my all my crossers that day, including my cousins, had followed my directions.  And from that day on, all my classmates were respectful and  I was never late, even in the rain and snow.  That year I learned that March wind was indeed my enemy. 

All year I dreamed about being named next year's captain and getting a special blue badge. 

On the last day of school right before recess I was summoned to the Principal's office - this was it, I was going to get the promotion!  Mrs. McC spoke to me in her most serious way that we had heard many times during assemblies. “Mr. Iszard, I drove by your post many times this year and you were always on time and doing your duty.  And so with your teacher's recommendation I am appointed you as our new Captain of the R.M. Bacon School Patrol. 

That day I learned a lesson that I would never forget -  if one comes early and does diligently - you're mostly likely  bound to get a badge. 

FOURTH GRADE FROSTY

  It was the first week of December 1959 and Miss Ruhlander, my 4th grade teacher, and the meanest at the Bacon school according to most of her students asked the class as our day began... “By request of our Principal Mrs. McCorristin every grade  is to contribute to the PTA’s Annual Christmas Assembly. The theme is Christmas Cards... there will be a large gold picture frame on stage and the "card" will be a Christmas scene formed by you and it will come to life and “entertain the audience.”

Does anyone have any talent?  
No hands went up.  “No one can play a carol on the piano?”  Still nothing. “Recite a Christmas poem?”  Again nothing.

And then for some unknown reason... I raised my hand and blurted – “I can be Frosty the Snowman!” Miss R was ecstatic at this great news.  She didn’t even ask how I could be the famous frozen one. And I didn’t know how myself to be honest. What I did know I had about a week to figure this one out.

Nanny, Mom and I put our heads together that night after dinner.  And Nanny said, without hesitation - “I’ll make you a snowman costume!” Just like that Frosty was on the way.  I had a record of the Gene Autry's Frosty the Snowman and that was my contribution.  Mom said, I’ll get the rest of the outfit.  

My grandmother could sew anything.  A shirt from scratch, no problem. Repair a ripped winter coat – a cinch.  But produce a snowman…I was dubious to say the least.

The couple of days passed.  And Nanny hummed away in her room working on a piece of white heavy fabric she just happened to have.  Her Singer hummed..

Mom’s job was critical to the entire performance.  “When they put a top hat on Frosty…he began to dance around…”  Where in this working man’s town would she get a top hat? Mom racked her brain.  During her lunch she walked uptown and tried all of the men’s shops. No dice! And it was too late and much too expensive to order one from Sears & Roebucks – never come in time. 

And then she had an inspiration – She called a good friend and our local funeral director. And he said, “Sure why not, anything for education.”  I couldn’t believe it.

The night before the show I tried on my costume.  White blossoming pants with a drawstring – we filled the legs with newspaper.  I put on a white jacket size triple XXX - that looked like the ones chefs wear.  It had big black button... where did Nanny had sewed them down the front that look like coal?  I 

She leaned borrowed  off her best winter coat.  Mom stuffed me with three pillows.  I looked in the bedroom mirror – good grief I was Frosty! 

Show night arrived.  Mom did my makeup - White Clown makeup, lots of rouge on my cheeks and drew black squares around my eyes and on my nose with an eyebrow pencil.   

Show time.  I had practiced a dance -  it was more like skipping in time to Mr. Autry’s beat.  The lights dimmed and I froze in place behind the big wooden "card" as the curtains rolled back and my scratchy record played.  Timed perfectly to the lyrics ( we had practiced for two days) my classmate – Mary Jane entered the tableau and placed the big black hat on my head.  And, and of course...as the song said, I started to dance around as the audience cheered. This gave some confidence and I started to improvise...with a series of pirouettes and finished with a magnificent high jumping twirl...that would have made Martha Graham proud - I had been inspired by the festive season and clapping from the audience - Then the officer on the record hollered STOP.  I stopped and then did an encore to a big cheer from the crowd. The song ended and I froze again back inside the “card”. The applause was long and loud. My Frosty was the hit of the show...And from that day on, whenever I see a snowman I remember the night when the magic in a mortician's hat made me a star...for a brief moment.

The BIG One

My memories dim as the years past – they seem to blend together into a long mix of events, holidays, tragedies and mainly just the fun times.

But one memory haunts me still – was in either ’56 or was it 55?  It was 55!

 

Millville vs. Vineland on the “Turkey Day Classic”.  And this was a special day – one that will live in infamy as President Roosevelt once said, for every true orange and blue football fan.  Millvile had won 31 straight games – straight that is!  Some close and many by big numbers.  But at the time this was one of the best records in the history of high school football annals.  

The town was in a frenzy for weeks.  And the gods who play with us could not have planned it better for the game that would break the record was against our age old enemy VINELAND.  

The Poultry Clan (gads what a name for a team – I always had visions of men in white sheets, peaked hats and carrying a rooster under each arm.  But that’s another story)  The fans, expecting sure win had collected enough money to buy coach Barbose a beautiful white Olds as a token of their collective gratitude. The Ed Sullivan show in NYC had called to arrange a visit by the team to be in the audience the Sunday after the contest to be recognized by the national audience.  The cheerleaders cut classes for two days to scavenge wood for the bonfire growing on the pitcher’s mound of the school baseball field – higher and higher it climbed above the trees. 

And the night before the big game the team vanished.  

Whisked away to the Cumberland Hotel in Bridgeton – away from the clamoring fans, family and possible harm from the enemy hordes across the border at the Clayville switch.  That night before the game a giant conflagration  turned my face crimson as I dared to get close in to the symbolic bonfire in the chilly air.  The cheers rang out across Wheaton field and as always it just waited for the dawn.

The next day we arrived two hours early for the game.  The crowd was already big and boisterous.  A nervous tingle went through us all.  And then the whistle and it began.  The BIG one had begun.

Millville received the kickoff if memory serves me ( I was only 10 at the time) deep in our own territory.  And on the third play Eddy Goodwin, number 57 a fullback went up the middle and didn’t stop for 60 or so yards.  We scored and the fans went ballistic.  But Millville fans never cheered that day again.  Vineland did the unthinkable.  The chicken pluckers beat the great Thunderbolts. 

And Coach Barbose new car sat on the 50 yard line for over a week until he finally drove it home.  Hi wife made him accept it. 

 And for us, the day is seared in our minds forever – what might, could, would have been - was lost.  But isn’t that the way life really is?  Storybook endings are only in the movies and the gods of sport laugh at our puny ideas and dreams – and a whole town had to just carry on with only the memories of what might have been.

THE FUMBLE

                      Sometimes, while watching football on tv - a player gets  seriously injured and is carted off the field and I always remember my own day of pain and fear...

            On s crisp October day, we blur collar Thunderbolts played the elite Haddonfield Knights (they were all in black uniforms much before the NFL decided to dress in somber tones).  On the kickoff,  I was surprised to be the first one down the field at own opponent – I wasn’t that fast, but I was pumped and getting better each game. Matter of fact, I was even starting to enjoy football.

             Haddonfield’s All-Star fullback took the ball and was coming full tilt right at me. I imagined, he would easily plow me under, but instead, with a textbook tackle I took him down and he fumbled. The crowd roared on both sides of the field -this guy never fumbles, (especially with college scouts watching).  The Knights recovered the ball on the own 40-yard line.

            On the first play from scrimmage I wasn’t touched by and found myself in the backfield to meet the same player head-on and there was fear in eyes.  I hit  even harder hitting and he fumbled again!  I was on top of him and I saw the ball right along side of  me…I reached for it…just as a bunch of players dove after it too…I was flipped over on my back…but my arm wasn’t, it  was pinned to the ground by a couple of players scrambling for the ball.  The whistle blew and I discovered that my right arm didn’t work anymore, and I was afraid to move it. The team doc rushed out and immediately signal the sideline and I was carried off the field on the dreaded golf cart. As we crossed the field I heard both sides giving me a cheer as I entered the dressing rooms under the stands.

            Well in just a few minutes, in great pain as they lifted me into the waiting ambulance - my mom and dad joined me.  At a nearby city hospital I laid in the emergency room for what seemed like hours.  Finally, I was wheeled into an operating room where  a surgeon on call looked down at me and said, “Son, we are going to put you to sleep for just a few minutes…you have a total dislocated should…if you are awake for what[COI1]  I must do …well… you probably never forgive or want to play a sport again!”  And then everything went black.

            In the blackness I saw flashes of light and then I was awake, it seemed like only seconds had passed.  Now in a room I awoke to my mom running her fingers through my hair. She always did this to calm me… looked like she had been crying, but she gave me one of her usual “everything will be OK” smiles. 

            My dad, as usual, just watched. 

             I thought he must be thinking of his own dislocation from a game 20 years before.  He had told me many times over the years how his “trick” shoulder plagued him… how it would just fall out of place and he had to wrestle it back. (This was now to be my experience for the next ten years to come until an NFL team doctor connect pinned my shoulder together with a  titanium screw. And for years later whenever it rained, I would feel my extra hardware.) 

            Mom was worried that I was hungry and then she fed me a yellow liquid that was supposed to be soup …it tasted more like dishwater.  After several hours, I was able to go and learned that Coach Barb had our car driven and  arranged for my first ambulance ride home too.  

           After a few painful hours, we left the Cooper Hospital in Camden for the hour trip to the Holly City. 

 When we arrived at the Millville city limits the driver said, “Cal I'm letting the town know your home as he turned on the siren.  It wailed all the way down our main street – even though it was late in the evening – I had  returned a triumphal return to my avid football town. 

            The rest of my weekend I laid on the couch, munching snacks with some heavy-duty pain pills. 

             Monday morning came quickly; I was supposed to stay home for a few days.  Not me. I had to continue my attendance record. I hadn’t missed a day of school since 9th grade and I was determined to make every day for my last year.  So, with my right arm in a sling I trudged to the bus stop and went to school.  That day I learned how much I depend ed on two arms and how awful it must be to lose one.

            Getting my books out of my locker for class became a big chore.  Luckily, I am left-handed since my right hand, even before this injury, had been practically useless and rarely called to duty. Lunchtime however became a life changing event even greater than having one’s arm almost torn off. 

             I found that getting my meal and then carrying the tray to my usual spot with my gang was going to be the day’s greatest challenge until…a petite blond girl behind me in line asked, “Cal want me to carry your tray?”  I replied most intelligently, “Huh…Ya…OK!” (I rarely conversed with the opposite sex except when I needed help with my homework.) I then tried to think of how Cary Grant  would handle this odd situation as I followed her to a table.  (By the way, our cafeteria doubled as a gym which made for an aromatic dining experience – a blend of cooking fumes mixed with the faint scent of recently worn gym socks seeping from the locker rooms.) This was not very romantic... 

            But this was how a fumble and fate conspired for me to “go steady” as they said then, with my first high school sweetheart.  And so, began a romance which would rival any in a Sandra Dee movie on a Saturday night - Or at least I thought so...

(TO BE CONTINUED)

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 [COI1]

THE LUNCHONETTE

Taking a drive and I see a banner on the side of the road – …“Luncheonette”…can’t help but  think of that word…something with an “Ette’ tacked to it refers either to the size of the mea,,,the place...or the size of the check…the latter more likely…Oh the idle mind is such a devil’s playground…and then I’m hungry for a burger from George & Mary’s. Luncheonette.

In every kid-life there is a luncheonette – or a local diner (a “greasy spoon”) as Grandmother Ethel would say…usually small in size and menu but big in the kid-life…

George and Mary’s…was our hangout…right across from the Bacon Jr. High a (named after a long-gone educator but a just a joke for many of its students who made on king sounds whenever anyone mention it.  And we were permitted, as trusted 8^th graders, a privilege the lowly lower grades didn’t have… to go there for lunch rather than to endure the dietitian delights served daily in the school’s basement cafeteria…which BTW no matter what it was always smelled like cheese!

But G&M served anything that could be fried…long before the Golden Arches popped up all over the world…the menu…great kid cuisine designed to taste good…not to reduce sodium intake…lower calories or fight global warming.

My regime changes daily…sometime a burger dripping with goodness other days I craved a cheese steak drowned in fried onions…my best buddy Bub preferred “subs” – which he devoured every day…I however with a more sophisticated appetite did not particularly enjoy ich meat swimming in vinegar and oil…I found that this seemed to overpower the continental flavors of the Italian lunchmeat,  .  (Why is it that almost everything in life that tastes good is now considered bad for you…and now kids must subsist on a baked burger without meat…I feel sorry for them … but I digress)

Each lunch the place was wall to wall with hungry kids JUKE Box who only had 20 minutes to eat and make it back to classes before the late bell tolled.  But George, the owner, wrapped in his white apron and presided over the chaos with great skills taking orders and shouting them out…even though Mary was only standing a few feet away…(this routine I observed was to xxx that everything was “cooked to order” as they say in the trade…actually, Mary started cooking burgers two hours before our lunch period or half of us would have gone back to school hungry.

The lunch battle was played out Monday through Friday – 180 school year battles of the burger and shakes.  But on Friday and Saturday nights the placed changed dramatically from a food joint to a “gambling den” for in the rear of the store was a magnificent flashing, dinging pinball machine – presided over by Brad the grandson of George and the all-time South Millville pinball shark!  His was always the high score and initials that was announced to the regulars on the machine backboard – this was a feature of most of these very expensive and exotic machine.  And there was always glowing pictures of a theme of the machine which always featured a buxom women smiling suggestively at player.

When Brad played none of our gang was permitted to talk…or we would get a withering stare from the perpetual champion of the game.  He was a master at flipping the flippers at the perfect moment to control where his ball would go and he never “titled” the machine like must of us…this the frustrating mechanism that immediately shut the game down if the player was trying to force a ball into one of the dingers or big score hole in the deck which cause the machine to come alive with music and ringing bells.  For two nickels two could play against each other – the challenger providing the coins and Brad playing free forever…he rarely had to fork up 5 cents as he never lost in our collective memory.  Sometimes however, he did buy his opponent a cherry coke as a token – his was a benevolent master.  (And he always paid George his grandpa for all his drinks but never was charged by Mary…his grandmother. George was known for to be thrifty and that’s why I always wanted his wife Mary to dip my ice cream cones)

I never came close to beating Bradley…I contended that the machine was designed for right handed flippers and I was lefthanded for everything.  Brad just smiled when I said this every time I lost.  But then one Friday night…

With 5 pals as my witness I tied Brad’s score for the first time…he was shocked and demanded a re-match.  And so a South Millville legend began…

Brad’s brother was on the payphone telling the rest our gang to hurry over as history might be made tonight.  Brad bought me a coke…he always waited between games because he said it gave the tilt device a chance to cool down.  Brad made a surprising move – he said, “Let’s put some money on this…and winner takes all - he put a dollar on the counter (big money in those days).  I in of their own. 

Brad went first an scored big.  I followed and after the first ball I was down by 5000 points – a miniscule difference in the high scoring system of pinball. By the end of the 4^th ball we were tied at 38,000 points each – everyone in the place was now gathered around the machine, Mary even had unplugged the Jukebox during a song even George was watching…he too felt that this could be a monumental night for his luncheonette…for is family.

I sent my last ball up the shut and played it a long time as sweat poured down my face…Brad as usual just patiently and coolly waited his turn…he was confident in his long practiced skills.  Finally my last chance dropped into the depths of the machine and my score posted – 56,757.

Brad ball began its’ journey with dings and bells galore.  He was playing the machine like a virtuoso plays a Stradivarius…and then it happened as he finesse his ball against a bumper – the machine stopped TILT the sign blared – he stood looking at the machine transfixed in shock.  He overplayed the game and lost to the dreaded default sensor not to me –  Brad left without saying a word. 

 This night would go down in our kid-lore as the night Brad tilted…not the night Cal beat the master – but for me it was a win and I would take it and his buck too.

THE GAME

College football on TV,  a Saturday in autumn with a crystal blue sky and the panoply of color in a stadium that is “striped”.  Ah yes, a scene that would rival the Roman circus and make a gladiator weep I think…and then I am getting ready for a big contest in 1957…

Orange and blue scarf – check

Thunderbolt hat – check

Shakers – check

Confetti – Check
Noise Maker – Check

I have dressed like a matador donning a “suit of lights” and check myself in mom’s big mirror - I am ready for thee game. 

Saturdays in the fall meant Thunderbolt football for practically our whole town.  So many came out that we needed “reserved” seats - my dad bought three at the drugstore early in summer -  so we would get “a good spot” he said.  And we did.  Our's were on the 40 yard line near the top of the bleachers.

My dad would tell mom each year, as we climbed the wooden stands, “Margaret, Vineland got a real concrete stadium out of the WPA, the best thing about the depression…but Millville no way, too poor to do that…"  Dad hailed from Vineland and could not help rubbing it in. 

So here we sat with great anticipation on splintery boards with a strong wind blowing up our backsides.  Waiting for our young "gladiators" to enter the arena.   

Today was Bridgeton, the first in the county Championship Series - this was big.  But the next game was the biggest game of all – arch rival Vineland on Turkey Day – the long awaited contest that earned bragging rights for a year.

The Thunderbolts,  just 29 players on the squad after a tough season was playing much bigger teams in this series.  To a great cheer our boys ran onto the field and started their warm up. Then became very quiet as the Bulldogs took the whole field.  All 102 players jogged around the entire perimeter of Wheaton Field chanting and dancing to a rhythmic drum beat – a dramatic entrance designed to intimidate – and it did make our small guys look even smaller.  

Bridgeton had dressed every male they could muster, from 6^th grade up, for the game.  They were messing with our team's heads right at the start.

However by half time – the scoreboard read – Millville 24 – Bridgeton 7.  We were not to be daunted by this team’s show of force.  We had very tough blue collar kids.

The halftime “show” began as our band – even smaller than our team marched on the field to perform their weekly salute to something or other after a week of tough practice.

Mister Smerski the “band teacher” looked like a “prussian general" in his well-worn white uniform with the orange and blue trim as he strode onto the field followed by his music makers.

His ensemble was heavy in brass - 4 trumpets and 2 trombones, followed by 2 snare drums, a bass drum, and a triangle player – that was it!  

One couldn't help noticing that only one of the marchers was actually “in step” with their leader.  The others seems to be marching to the sound of their own drummer, as they say - "but they try hard," as my mom said each week.

Mr. Smerski, had always dreamed of leading the Philadelphia Symphony but this didn't happen and he had to settled  waving a white baton before a bunch of higher schoolers after he graduated from an academy of music – accordion players rarely make it to the big time and he had to settle like many of us who dream dreams that can't come true.  

His current state made him a stern task master as he barked out marching orders and not react to the sour notes that escaped from several of trumpets.  (By the way, playing a brass instrument in a brisk fall wind is not an easy task since a strong gust can sometime cause the instrument to play the player instead.) hazzard.

This week the band formed a blob on the 50 yardline that was supposed to look like a turkey for their salute to Thanksgiving. 

"Maestro Smear's" as his student called him behind his back, and musical minions all donned homemade paper Indian war bonnets.  (And yes we use that word, not Native Americans in these not so politically correct days)  

Two of the cheerleaders pranced on the field, one wearing a big black hat and the other a long gray dress – apparently their vision of our “Puritan ancestors”.  The band broke into the only Thanksgiving song they could muster:  Over the river through the woods...da da da...My mother gaily sang along with the band. 

The reverberating sounds fades and the “band” marched off.  This signaled the time for me to get a couple of  which I lovingly called the PTA snack bar hot dogs.  A football game would not be complete without one of these mighty burp masters swimming in yellow mustard and a dab of bright green relish that always looked “dyed” to me.

They were 50 cents each.  

The first one I inserted into my mouth like a sword swallower.  Gone.  The second I would make last for at least a minute, taking time to savor the delicate flavors that were wrapped in a rubbery bun that had been on the cold counter for a few hours.

I made it back as the second half began – mother asked, “How was the hotdog?  and Did you get a chance to go to the restroom?”  

For some reason my mom was always concerned with my bodily functions. She seemed constantly worried that if I forgot to “go” something awful would happen.  And so I had learned to always say "yes" to her queries – whether I did go or had not gone. 

The game played on.  

We won 45 to 7 - As the last whistle blew the last bits of confetti was tossed and the stands emptied with happy fans chatting about the next game and the odds that this year would be “our year”.  And I went home with red cheeks – “wind burn” my mom called it.

Our gladiators had lived to fight another day and for today all was right with my world.

THE LAST GAME

     Watching football with my son I tend to comment a bit too much and watch too little – I chat about how I played rather than about the game we watch – I know this interferes with his intense concentration on “his” college team. The conversation usually goes, “…Jon we were taught to tackle, not hold on every play…there’s pass interference on every play…face mask, what’s a face mask?  I had a single bar and that I had to buy myself when I chipped my front tooth…”  “Yes dad,” is his usual reply.

    Then I’m back in the MHS locker-room getting ready for my last high school football game.  It’s Thanksgiving morning and time for one of the oldest high school rivalries in the nation – the annual Vineland vs. Millville game for the county championship.  This last game was the big game of the season each year no matter what the records were for either opponents.  And the outcome would be discussed at Jim’s Lunch all year until next November. And much had happened until this day for me, for the team.  A day that we all had been waiting years for had come.

     Most of the game of football is never seen by the spectators – it takes place in grueling practices that seem will never end.  Matter of fact, the game is the easy part of the sport.  And our coach “Coach Barb” as we called him was famous – John Barbose was his name and he is credited with inventing the “dealing defense” which was a series of “stunts” designed to fool the opposing team as they played against a myriad of looks and players moving in and out of their usual positions. 

      When we lost on Saturday, we all dreaded Monday.  It would not be a day off watching films.  It would be hours of hitting and then more hitting after that.  Coach had a couple of spotlights (this was before high school has regular night games) attached to the press box at the top of the home bleachers.  They provided just enough light so that we could practice well into the early dark of late fall and for him and his coaches to see every mistake as we scrimmaged – the varsity against the scrubs who were constantly trying to take our starting status away from us.  The hitting was intense and a matter of fact I got a broken nose from one of my competitors during a “live” scrimmage.  The blood flowed freely and soaked my shirt front.  My line coach Ole’Rile noticed it and cheerfully reported, “Iszard has the lineman’s badge of courage…way to go Cal!”  I cannot repeat what I thought at that moment.

      This prologue of pain ended for me on our fourth game of the season.  This was a big game and were told that there were several big college scouts in the stands watching both undefeated teams battle.  We kicked off to undefeated Haddonfield a much bigger richer school with a much bigger team dressed all in black.  The ball went to their star player on the run and he flew straight up the middle of the field as I ran full tilt directly at him – I hit him with a textbook tackle and he fumbled the ball, but Haddonfield recovered.  On the first play from scrimmage he ran a dive play  and I was there to meet him – another crunching tackle ensued and he fumbled a second time.  I saw the ball right beside me and I stretched out my arm to snag it just as a big pile of linemen scrambled for the ball.  I was pushed in one direction and my right arm was twisted in the opposite direction.  As the dust cleared, I realized that I had a dislocated shoulder; it was bent at a very unnatural angle.  I spent the rest of Saturday in a strange hospital and my football days seemed at an end after miles of wind-sprints, thousands of push ups, hours of grueling practices and sprains – all over in one play.  After waking from the operating room, I found my arm totally immobilized and pined to my chest with yards of elastic.  On the ride home in an ambulance that coach B had sent from home – I was depressed because the emergency room surgeon had informed me that my playing days were over; that it would be weeks of therapy to get the use of my arm back. I thought how this could have been worse - and the football spirits that I was left handed and I promised myself that my senior year wasn’t going end like this.

     After “recuperating” for just one day I surprised everyone by going to school Monday morning as usual. 

I got a lot of attention in the halls and that afternoon, I went to the locker room and “dressed” for practice.  I put on my jersey over my trussed-up wing and no pads.  This took awhile and the locker room was empty - I took a deep breath and joined my team for calisthenics that began each practice.  For the rest of the season I didn't miss a practice as I ran to stay in shape.  I learned the new plays watching from the sideline.  I used to hate practice now I longed to get into the mix again.

      After sitting on the bench for the next 4 games with the team it was our bye week before the big Turkey Day game and I paid a visit to our coaches office.  “Coach B, I’ve want to play just one more play in the Vineland game,” I whimpered and then broke down in embarrassing tears.  Coach B’s eyes filled up too.  And he said,"I’ll try to work something out with the Principal but I need to talk to the team physician about this before I can do anything".  

Several days later he sent for me and handed me a $275.00 shoulder brace and said, “I got permission from everyone that you could play but just on offense (in those days using our hands was a penalty); your be our starting right tackle.”

     I thank him; I cried again and so did he.

     I must admit that I was scared and not sure I could make needed blocks with my arm encased in a very heavy brace, but I was determined to try.  A week later after trying some hitting in practice I ran out for our first play in the game and to my surprise Rob our captain pointed to the stands behind me and I saw people standing and cheering for me.  The first play I took a big hit from a giant tackle but I made my block and we gained a first down – the rest of the game is a hazy memory. 

      To my surprise Coach let me play every down on offense.  I just wanted to taste this last game and I got it all to savor for years to come.  I remember just one other play when I felt very vulnerable when one of Bub’s passes was intercepted and my automatic reaction was to run to tackle the running player.  As I sped down the field, I remembered right before my impact with the runner that I only had one arm.  We slammed together, and he went down as I saw small stars for a moment.  

     But I had made my last hurrah. We didn’t win that day; 6 – 6 tie.  But I felt like a winner.  I had played my best and would have a great memory of that day. I could have Aunt Mary's turkey and ravioli in peace.

      Months later in June, as is the custom, I had my new yearbook autographed by many friends and teachers.  

Coach B wrote, "Good luck, Cal Iszard the bravest man I have ever coached.”