Post 18: The Holy Grail: Fitting In

I sensed early on that the way to fit in with our male cousins, our neighborhood, and our school was through sports. Despite the fact that I excelled in academics and was a gifted pianist by the age of seven, I was inept at sports except swimming which, unfortunately, wasn’t a guy’s sport, according to my uncle Hal.

In sharp contrast to my ineptitude, David excelled in virtually every sport he tried, and Denton was also more than proficient at the holy trinity of sports: football, baseball, and basketball. To that end, their mother, my aunt Virginia, installed a regulation baseball diamond, basketball court, and, yes, football field on their acreage next to the house. Add in archery, golf, tennis, volleyball, and any activity that two or more people could attempt and score, and David and Denton were, in every way, game.

Early on, presumably because we were family, David and Denton were encouraged to include me in their sporting pursuits. If encouragement failed, Aunt Virginia would threaten. More often than not that worked. I gained what would be deemed minimal proficiencies in the trinity, only marginally embarrassing David and Denton on any given Saturday afternoon. David was agreeable and seemingly less worried about being associated with a sports outcast.

I learned to effectively “blend” by disappearing in deep left field during an afternoon baseball game. I quickly learned to never ask for the ball on the basketball court, and to immediately pass to my nearest teammate if I found the ball in my hands. When it came to football, the field of players was usually large enough that I could simply emulate others in what appeared to me be helter-skelter melees, which others solemnly referred to as “plays.”

Sometimes, none of these strategies worked.

My worst and most lasting sports memory is attached to our annual Thanksgiving Day neighborhood football game. It was played, rain, shine, or snow, on my Aunt Virginia’s football field. The game attracted players from several adjacent neighborhoods, most of whom were friends through middle or high school sports teams. By my second or third season on the field, it was clear to most of the regulars that I was included only because my aunt demanded it. I was the player who was, of course, chosen last.

Nature, at this point, got in the final lick: by the time I was approaching thirteen, I was well over six feet tall, and to look at me, most of the uninformed—coaches, PE teachers, and teammates—assumed that height meant might and that I would simply be a natural at any game or sport. It usually took even the most hopeful coach or potential teammate about five minutes to realize that this dog wasn’t going to hunt.

On this particular Thanksgiving Day (I must have been twelve), two of the more popular and accomplished high school jocks, Jay Fleming and Dom Brenner, brought along a ringer from a neighboring high school. I don’t recall his given name, but it was hard not to remember his size. I was told later that he was a linebacker for our rival high school, weighed in at about 240 pounds, could turn on a dime, and ran the fifty-yard-dash in under nine seconds, which I could only assume was fast. His nickname was “Bud,” and he was here to take part in the annual big game—to win.

As usual, I was chosen last. Mercifully, at least so I thought, I ended up on the same team with Bud, which relieved me no end. You see, in those pre-litigious simpler days, we played full-on tackle football with no protective gear and only a few basic guidelines. Over the years, I’d seen Thanksgiving Day games send players home (or to the ER) with broken arms, wrists, collarbones, and femurs. So, even the remote likelihood of my ending up with the ball and, worse, being tackled by all 240 pounds of Bud was beyond any sports nightmare I’d ever had.  Up until this game.

A light snow started falling while the captains were picking teams. No one paid much attention. The game had been played in sleet and rain the previous year. A little snow was nothing.

I wish I had the ability to provide a play-by-play of the ensuing disaster, but here’s what I remember. I followed my typical plan for the first ten minutes of play: for defense, run after the guy with the ball, but don’t get close enough to tackle him. For offense, at the snap, run away from your own quarterback, arms to your side, preferably surrounded by opposing team members so there would be no earthly chance of being mistaken for an open receiver.

What I was not prepared for was a play that I would later learn was called a “lateral.” Even so, everything would have been fine, except that the new guy, Bud, had no idea that I was football Kryptonite.

Ten minutes in, snow was pelting us and the ground beneath us was turning into a mixture of mud and ice. Our mighty quarterback, Jay, called the play, the ball was hiked to him, and off we went. Looking for his open man (no, no women played in this game), Jay spied Bud and threw him a perfect spiral. I saw the ball coming toward me and panicked for a brief moment until I saw Bud sail past me and execute a perfect catch. I was off the hook. So I thought.

What happened next is still a blur in my mind, but I can remember myself asking, Why, why in the world would Bud toss the ball sideways to me and throw away yardage and possibly a touchdown? It would later be explained to me that Bud was executing a classic lateral play, in which he would toss the ball to me and then provide all 240 pounds of cover as I sailed across the end zone to victory.

It was not to happen.

Remarkably, I caught Bud’s lateral, and somehow, in the panic, the swirling snow, and the loud voices everywhere yelling at me to “Run!” I got turned around and found myself escorted by a friendly group of incredulous guys clearing the way for me and cheering me on. My god, I’m going to score a touchdown!  I ran faster.

I crossed into the end zone and turned, expecting a hero’s welcome. My angry teammates descended on me. “You’re a fucking moron, you know that?” I heard from no one in particular. “Idiot.” I scanned the crowd for a friendly face, and was met with none. I was stunned and afraid I might cry. Instinctively, I crept to the sidelines, still wondering what had gone wrong.

Denton walked up and started to say something, then stopped, gave me a defeated look, and walked on in silence. Others on the field huddled in groups, avoided me, and occasionally glanced my way simply shaking their heads in disbelief. David, sensing my confusion, walked up and put his hand on my shoulder. Before I could ask, he said, as matter-of-factly as he could, “You ran the wrong way, Drew. You scored for the other side.” Despite his innate compassion, David’s competitive nature won out and he walked quietly away from me, leaving me alone on the sidelines, with freezing feet and a humiliation that was a hundred times colder.

As an adult, I came to understand that my colossal mistake had been made by others, even the occasional pro player who would also be saddled with my storied nickname, “Wrong Way.” It would be years before “Wrong Way Carter” would cease to provide hilarity in neighborhood lore.

To my great fortune, I stuck with swimming. In the summer of 1972, I would go on to discover that swimming was, indeed, contrary to what my uncle Hal had said, very much a guy’s sport. This was vividly punctuated that summer when Mark Spitz earned seven gold medals in the Summer Olympics. Ironically, I had a banner summer, too. For a brief period of about six weeks, I held the state record for fifteen-to-seventeen boys’ fifty-meter backstroke. Turns out my morning practices paid off. And despite years of failure in every sport on land, I became a bona fide jock in water.

I doubt my cousin David remembers it, but I remember showing him my state medal and his genuine amazement followed by his wholehearted congratulations. It meant more than even I understood at the time. It was, of course, what I had wanted family to recognize. While David and Denton had flanked me during my seemingly endless seasons of losses, in a brief moment in August of 1972, I experienced redemption. I became not only one of the winners, I was one of the guys.