Friend's poem describes teammates and days gone by

By: Nigel Alston | Winston-Salem Journal
Published: August 30, 2009

In life, as in a football game, the principle to follow is: Hit the line hard. -- Theodore Roosevelt

The subject line said it all: A poem for old teammates. It didn't take long for me to open the e-mail and read what Tim Ebert, R.J. Reynolds High School class of '68, had penned. It took me back -- way back to those hot August days of football practice.

My football days started early; tackle football in the backyard with special markers for out-of-bounds -- the clothes line and the fence. No pads, just a football and a group of boys with some time to pass. Sometimes we played in the street. And then there was the time I played towel-tag football at Columbia Heights Elementary School during my fourth-grade year.

It wasn't long before I was playing on the team at Kennedy Junior High School, where coaches Cuthrell and Hollingsworth led us on to many victories. We had a good team my ninth-grade year; undefeated, if I recall accurately. I played offensive tackle. That was the year I had to make a major decision -- continue piano lessons or play football. I don't think my music teacher, Mrs. Scott, likes football to this day. We laughed about that not too long ago.

I decided, along with several students at Kennedy, to attend Reynolds instead of the school within walking distance, Atkins High School. One of our favorite teachers, Mrs. Martin, was going to Reynolds, we thought, and we wanted to follow her. That meant playing against some of the guys I played with and knew very well. It made for a spirited rivalry. We played and hit each other hard, talked a little "trash" at the line of scrimmage, and filled up Bowman Gray Stadium on Friday nights.

I remember those days as standing-room-only, playing against Parkland or Atkins. My sophomore and junior years produced 10-0 teams through the regular season. We had players like Curtis Little, a former principal; a hard-hitting nose tackle, Bernard Buie; and two of the fastest running backs around, Thomas Little and Stan Crews. They were also track stars and Little was a state wrestling champ. Boy, were they fast, tough and hard hitting. We had players like Charles Bailey, Conrad Graham and David Plummer, to name a few more.

Reading Ebert's poem brought back memories of that practice field where young men continue to practice today during these hot August days.

"I actually had this poem in my head for several years," said Ebert. "Every year at this time, I'll think back on summer practice." His hope was to bring back the "images we all remember so well." And, to put a smile on the faces of old teammates.

I drive by the RJR practice field almost every day, especially this time of the year, when student-players are practicing, preparing for the season or the next Friday night game. I look at the spot on the service-station wall across the street from the field where there used to be a big clock. I don't know what the routine is now, but at 5:55 p.m. each day of practice, it was time for our fourth-quarter drills. That meant the end of another day of practice. That is one of the many memories the poem, "August Grass," by Tim Ebert, brought back:

I often recall the moist, green August grass,

The freshly mowed clippings, glistening on pristine fields

Awaiting the coming onslaught; hordes of cleated athletes;

"Two-a-days" prepare summer-laxed muscles for the grind ahead.

I can still smell the fragrance of the August grass,

The morning dew, sparkling with cool freshness,

That rises with the sun and heat, turning vapors into steam,

Filling the nostrils with uniquely scented, most precious air.

I still feel the comfort of the soft August grass,

Cushioning falls while staining arms and legs

With green that would have, otherwise, been red.

Giving all a brief, but welcomed respite