First And Life: My Year As A High School Football Player

By Karl Wiebe

Having just moved from the big city to a small town with no friends, young Karl Wiebe tries out for the local football team—and hilarity ensues! Will he learn that hard work and dedication are the cornerstones to success? Will he even make the team? More importantly, will he ever get a date? Based on actual events from Karl's real life, this book is guaranteed to make you laugh, cry and ultimately weep in amazement. You will proudly declare that you will NEVER pick up another book again, because there simply is no point after reading what is essentially a perfect literary work. Plus it makes a great beach read. Or a cool coaster. Just buy it already.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Wiebe
• Release date: Mar 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310350146

Book preview

Disclaimer

It takes a long time to write a novel. Often there are long stretches of my life where I have a project, such as this one, in the works. My friends and loved ones are always bugging me to read my novels before they are finished. Sometimes they will phone me at my house, often before I get up. This is really annoying. Who phones at 1 p.m.!

Anyway, one of these special people in my life needed to be entertained one day as they were stuck in a class. Instead of trying to learn something, she was adamant that I send her something funny. Rather than try to actually think up something original, I cut and pasted a couple of sample chapters and sent them through the twitterwebs to her. Suddenly, she had received a bootleg copy, or an advance look at this novel. I figured this would keep her busy for a while. She e-mailed me back about 10 minutes later and asked me what age group this novel was intended for.

As I writer, I am hard-wired to receive criticism. However, vague questions such as this make me incredibly insecure, and as such I responded with (what I considered to be a normal amount of) outrage. Whether or not I was criminally liable for the things I said to her is a matter for history and the courts to decide.

Suffice it to say that this book is intended for ADULTS. So, in the interests of not getting sued because you lent this book to your niece, keep it on the top shelf with your bottle of scotch and your naked playing cards. Don’t let little Billy see the four of clubs! He’ll be scarred for life.

In this book, you will find ADULT situations intended for a MATURE audience. These situations include a mobile trailer full of naked teenage boys, me kicking a football in someone else’s ass, and references to breasts too numerous to count.

So unless you are a MATURE ADULT, put this book down immediately.

Phew. I’m glad that was handled in a professional and responsible manner.

Now that we got rid of those boring immature people, let’s read about teenage boys, football and boobies!

Chapter 1

It was a new town, a new school, and a new year.

Needless to say, I was in a thoroughly bad mood.

What is it about the first day of school that makes it so difficult for almost everyone? Some would say it’s the lack of friends, or the hysterical mania. Here is a situation where new students race around a new school, trying desperately to find their new classes with their new teachers. There’s a certain pathetic irony to watching four hundred new students walk aimlessly around the shiny marble halls, trying to beat the clock and make it to a class that they completely and utterly do not want to get to. Hurry up and be miserable!

I was one of those kids. It was early September (right after Labor Day, the best, last and most depressing weekend for any school-aged child) and I was entering the halls of hallowed Fort William Collegiate Institute. Collegiate Institute made it sound pretty high-end, but it was a public high school in Ontario, just like all the other public high schools in Ontario. They are filled with the same kids that fill up every other high school in the free world—young people who fear the bullies, bullies who try to avoid the teachers, teachers who try to avoid the really happy and outgoing teachers, and really outgoing teachers who wind up volunteering students for football.

Hi, young man! I heard an authoritative voice from behind as I stood aimlessly and confused in the hallway, studying my blurred photocopy of my class list. I wheeled around.

My name is Mr. Stevens, he said in a deep voice, his hand outstretched. I meekly shook it.

My first impression of Mr. Stevens was that of a military commando. Or, more specifically, a military commando who had gone AWOL from some coup attempt in Cuba and fled to Northern Ontario to hang out with high school kids.

He was tall, muscular, and wearing a grey hoodie that said BLUEBEARS in ridiculously huge bright blue letters, and in a weird sort of way it matched his camouflage green and brown jogging pants. I wasn’t sure about the camouflage pants—I mean, how many forests are people jogging through? Then it made sense. If someone was shooting at me in the forest, camo jogging pants would not only provide camouflage but also comfort as I ran for my life.

Mr. Stevens was wearing glasses that tinted in the sun. Unfortunately, I was no where near outside. I was standing in the middle of the hallway, just outside the gymnasium, and I knew that my Social Studies class was around here somewhere. Much like a manhunt, I had narrowed down the possible locations where the class could be located, using only my fuzzy print-out and my wits as a guide. With Mr. Stevens wearing huge tinted shades, he looked like a drill-sergeant in the hallway. He had recently been outside, since the lenses were almost completely black. My first reaction was to grab a quarter and drop it in a coffee cup, but I knew he wasn’t a hobo because usually they slump a bit and have dirty hoodies, not clean ones. I was guessing he was a gym teacher, or possibly an escaped senior-citizen bodybuilder who liked to hang around high schools. Maybe he was doing a real manhunt? Was I on some sort of most wanted list?

Mr. Stevens was probably in his forties, but it was hard to tell, since every adult when you are in high school looks like they are in their forties, or possibly their eighties. There’s really no in-between. Either you are forty or you are eighty. Or, like me, you are in high school, and probably look like you are twelve.

I weighed in at one hundred and eight pounds, but after a large meal and before a bathroom break I could get it up to about one ten if I really went for it. I’m talking about not eating bran and just really holding everything in for a while. I stood about five and a half feet tall and had no muscles whatsoever. You know that skeleton that hangs in biology class on the pole? That was me, except that the skeleton had a better complexion and more girls touched him.

I was obviously giving off some sort of confused vibe and Mr. Stevens was coming to the rescue. I was like Lois Lane except a dude. I hope his wasn’t going to carry me to my class.

What can I help you with, young man? Mr. Stevens wasn’t going away. I must have looked especially lost, standing in the doorway to the gymnasium, over by the huge rack of sports trophies. There were lots of blurry, faded black-and-white photographs in the trophy case, along with some dusty medals and a huge bucket trophy that had 1968 Bluebears stenciled on it in black letters.

Um, I stammered. Pretty much every conversation when you are under twenty starts the same way, and this one was no different.

Um, I was just, like, trying, um, to find my class. I had a wrinkly little photocopy in my hand that had been handed out at the door before we were corralled into the big, shiny, musty gymnasium to learn about how we were going to love Fort William Collegiate Institute better than our own homes. We were going to love it! LOVE IT! Now get out! And take your fuzzy print-out. That was pretty much the assembly, and we filed out slowly, some slow because they did not know where they were going, and others walking even slower because they did.

Hey, check that out! Mr. Stevens nodded with his head over to the trophy case. I glanced over and saw the huge trophy. It was a faded bronze color and was at least two feet tall. Impressive, eh? He asked me.

I shrugged.

That was when we won state in 1968. State!

I nodded, trying to look impressed. I figured he hadn’t been part of the 1968 team, either as a player (if he was in his forties) or a coach (if he was in his eighties) because no one in Canada had ever called the provincial championships winning state. But I did silently admit to myself that state championship did sound pretty cool.

Were you on that team, sir?

What? Mr. Steven laughed. That’s a little before my time, son. What’s your name?

Karl.

Well, Karl, in 1965 I was in Vietnam having my own little battle.

Yikes. I had seen the movie Platoon. I wanted this conversation to end. Just let me find my room! On occasion, I had considered stabbing myself in the leg in order to get out of school, but I had never really thought it a possibility.

It was awkward just standing there with this teacher-slash-coach. There had to be an easier way to find my class, I told myself silently. How many rooms were there in this school, like fifty max? Even at a room a minute, the chances were good that I could find the proper room within—

Karl, I want you to try out for the football team.

What? Was this guy really blind?

I looked around for another kid also named Karl. I didn’t know what to say. I stood there in the hallway holding my wimpy photocopy and wondering if he was able to park in the closest spot at the school. Could he even drive a car? Where was his German Shepherd? Don’t get me wrong, I was totally cool with it. We had a blind teacher. That was cool; I didn’t judge people any differently with disabilities—

Tryouts are today at 4 pm.

Um, oh, I replied, my mind racing for an immediate out. A little light bulb went off. Sorry, I didn’t bring anything to change into.

Mr. Stevens didn’t miss a beat. He glanced quickly at my KISS T-shirt and jeans. I was wearing basketball high-top sneakers, but they were so old they provided absolutely zero ankle support. If anything, they were probably damaging my feet.

That’s OK. We have changes of clothes right here. Follow me.

The hallway was starting to thin out as more and more students were actually finding their classes, or a least deciding that being in a random room was better than standing in the hallway with a potentially blind Phys-Ed teacher and a lost kid with old shoes.

Wow, I thought for a moment, as I followed Mr. Stevens to a nearby office. I was impressed. I thought they must have a pretty good football program at Fort William if they offered track suits and such to prospective athletes. Maybe I looked a little more athletic than I thought. I also considered myself, well thin, didn’t really describe it. Athletically gaunt? Concentration camp skinny? Maybe I was starting to fill out. I wondered what other amenities this program had for athletes—

It was when he opened the door that I realized that was actually not an office but rather a supply room. And the scope of the football program was brought into clearer focus when I saw Mr. Stevens reach into a brown cardboard COMPAQ computer box with Lost & Found written on the side in red magic marker.

This will do! he exclaimed, pulling out two athletic socks, kind of the same color of white, especially if the lighting was poor enough. He reached into the mass of clothing and suddenly he brought out a pair of bright blue shorts and a blue T-shirt that was exactly the same color as the shorts.

Is there, um, a larger shirt in the box? I stammered. I was desperately hoping for a larger shirt. And possibly a different color shirt. And possibly an escape route, if I was going to start up a wish list.

Sure! He rummaged around and found a white, oversized shirt that had some sort of brown stain on it. I sincerely hoped it was dirt. There had originally been an iron-on that said JESUS LOVES ME on the front. Except the J had fallen off. No worries, son!

I thanked Mr. Stevens and took the ESUS LOVES ME shirt and the shorts and put it in my bag. I promised him that I would show up at the trailer by Collegiate Field at 4 pm, which was down the street from the school a couple of blocks.

I would have to leave school after my first day wearing bright blue shorts. And they were short shorts too, not the cool NBA shorts that are really longs. These were the 1970s shorts.

Mr. Stevens walked me to class as the buzzer had already gone. We were now in that point of the day, just after the buzzer rings, when it was understood that you needed a damn good reason to be wandering around the halls. There were always one or two teachers who never seemed to teach—they just patrolled the hallways like sentries, helping students find their way to class and then later in the first week scolding the students for being truant. Mr. Stevens was the ultimate hall pass—when I showed up to my class he opened the door and I was able to take my seat without any incident. I mumbled a quick thanks and squished the two almost-clean socks into my school bag.

As I sat there in social studies class, learning about how great and exciting the upcoming year was going to be, I thought about the short shorts and running football drills in basketball high tops. I was pretty certain at that point that either Esus did not love me or maybe he had slept in late this morning.

Chapter 2

The first day of school is probably the only day in the entire year when teachers don’t give out homework. Maybe they actually feel sorry for the students, or maybe the teachers are still easing back into their own lives at school.

Maybe their heart just isn’t in it yet. The year before, I was back in the big city of Calgary, instead of sitting in northern Ontario in a tiny town called Thunder Bay. In Calgary, I know that my teachers would get a gleam in their eye when they assigned chapters and review questions for the students. I swear I saw my biology teacher’s breath shorten as he proudly proclaimed a pop quiz on the final Friday of last semester. He was like the grim reaper, inhaling and smiling when the collective groan escaped the class. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but he feasted on our misery. However, all of those teachers had been at my old school, about four million miles away across the country.

This new school, in southern Thunder Bay, which was known as Fort William, was similar to my old high school in Calgary. It had lockers and pretty girls and dorky guys and weirdoes. But, it was also new and novel enough to be strange, and I was glad when the first day was over. Do you remember in the movies, where the shy kid meets a cool computer guy and they become best friends? Or the new guy drops his binder and the good-looking cheerleader picks it up and their eyes lock? Yes!

None of that actually happened to me at my new school. Did it ever happen to anyone? Who is writing these movies? Is there some super-studly California writer sitting around in Hollywood, banging out screenplays that feature these scenarios when he’s not busy having sex with his ultra-hot former cheerleader wife? Write about what you know, he would proclaim, emerging from the bedroom to clickity-clack on his 13-inch MacBook Pro.

No, that sort of thing didn’t happen. I didn’t even meet the uncool nerdy computer guy. Maybe he was hanging out with the cheerleader, who knows.

I was happy to just not drop my binder in the hallway and when the bell sounded at 3:30 p.m. I was ready to leave—even if it meant putting on bright blue short shorts and running around in front of coaches. I wondered if I would earn the nickname Esus. Hey, here comes Ay-Zeus! Catch the ball, Ay-Zeus! I prayed to multiple Gods that this would not happen. I was willing to convert; I was not that picky regarding religion.

Despite the blue short shorts and the complete lack of friends, I was really excited about football tryouts. Actually, excited probably isn’t the right word. Anxious? Fearful? Terrified? Not looking forward to getting cut again? Alright, that last phrase is more than one word, but it sums it up pretty accurately. I came from a really large city and the year before I had tried out for the football team.

As I walked to my small-town football practice, my mind wandered back a year to the big city of Calgary and my horrible, horrible memories of trying to make the football team. Me and about twenty friends from our junior high showed up for football tryouts on the first day of high school. We were pumped. I mean, we had cleats, shorts, matching socks—one guy actually went out and bought an authentic Atlanta Falcons jersey with his name embroidered on the back.

None of us had any idea what we were getting into.

High school football tryouts in a big city are basically the same as getting drafted into the army and then shipping out to Iraq, only more dangerous. At least in Iraq, your fellow soldiers aren’t trying to stick their helmet in your crotch and damage your internal organs. In the Middle East, professional soldiers are all working together, trying to stay alive and defeat an enemy. In high school football, the average player is surrounded by immature, testosterone-filled maniacs who want nothing more than to throw you to the ground in front of the coach in order to gain an extra two minutes of playing time.

Football tryouts in the big city were complete chaos. Make that complete chaos with girls watching thirty yards away in the bleachers. Lights... camera... cue the embarrassment!

In Calgary, our football team the year before I tried out had boasted the standard fifty-five player roster. That is the maximum number of players that any team in the city could hold. The rest of the students who didn’t make the team were, quite frankly, considered losers. It was very easy to tell who made the team and who didn’t. Those students on the team had big leather football jackets, bruises that they would proudly display to their friends and admirers, and they would have sore wrists from writing their phone numbers down for girls. The players who didn’t make the team were also easily identified—they were the ones sitting alone at lunch with sore wrists as well, albeit for different reasons entirely.

One difference I noticed was that in a large metropolis, we had received advance notice about the football tryouts. By advance I mean one day. It was complete chaos as kids from all over descended on every available sporting goods store within the city limits that night in an attempt to purchase cleats, shorts, athletic T-shirts, and whatever else we could grab that might give us an edge over the competition. You had one night. If your parents had gone out to a movie that evening, your chances of a professional football career were dead in the water. Unless you could convince girls that science and reading were sexy, your chances of getting laid fell considerably.

That second day, me and my junior high friends lined up in the gymnasium after school to register. I don’t mind admitting that I was looking good. I had a fresh new pair of cleats, a grey Minnesota Vikings official practice shirt, and longs—shorts that actually came down to the proper length, somewhere near the knee. I looked around. I counted the number of visible bodies. I stopped after two hundred. More guys were coming in.

I was starting to officially sweat in my Minnesota Vikings official practice shirt.

Almost everyone was bigger, stronger and taller than me or the twenty friends I had evolved from junior high with. We stood in line, quietly awed by the fully-grown seniors who walked by us. One guy had a beard. That just made me depressed, until I figured beardy would try to put me on the ground at some point. It was at point that I became depressed and scared. I secretly hoped beardy was a coach, but I had seen him kicking another students’ binder down the hall earlier in the day over by the cafeteria. He had kicked it over to mustache man, and it wasn’t like a peach fuzz mustache either. I was pretty sure these two guys were not employed by the school board.

Despite my official Minnesota Viking T-shirt, the first day of tryouts almost killed me. We spent an hour doing wind sprints and bean-bag drills, getting timed and analyzed by the coaches. There wasn’t a football in sight. I never understood the bean-bag drill. I mean, you basically line up in a gym, wearing outdoor cleats, because you didn’t realize that half of the practice was inside, and then you have to run back and forth, transporting multiple bean-bags, one at a time, to another spot. How is this possibly applicable to football? I don’t remember any plays being called the huddle at involved tiny bags filled with seeds, corn, beads, or marbles. I don’t think any NFL quarterback ever said to the troops in the huddle, okay guys, we’ll throw the ball over to the receiver, but I want the tight end and the weak-side tackle to run to the thirty-five and transplant these tiny sacks of corn. We may not win the game, but the grain farmers will have a great crop in a few months.

I remember in junior high, us kids would just get together and wolf down our peanut-butter sandwiches as quickly as possible. We were excited. I don’t even remember chewing. We would then play pickup football for the remainder of the lunch hour. I remembered being a much better player than perhaps I actually was. I was fast, and I remember catching a ball here and there and running, juking and sprinting into the end zone. I had even thrown a few passes in my day! I don’t remember ever moving bean bags across a gymnasium floor or doing forty-yard wind sprints over on the soccer field.

What’s up with the wind sprints? Were the coaches actually paying attention? Could one adult with a clipboard seriously be marking down the finishing times of eight kids every ten seconds or so? I hated the thought of exerting myself purely for the sake of exercise. Yes, I knew that a healthy body lived longer and all that stuff. Who cares! I glanced around for any females. If the coaches weren’t paying attention, at least have some girls around please. I wanted to know that my efforts were being judged and graded, either by the authorities in charge or some members of the opposite sex.