An ode to the linemen

One of the most influential books I read growing up was Football Dreams by David Guy. It is a coming-of-age story in which the main character, Dan Keith, must overcome the death of his father and the realization that he would be playing football on the line while other people get to play in the “glory” positions like running back or quarterback. In particular, there is a crucial scene in a big game where Dan has the opportunity to make a huge block that will spring his running back for the score — the same running back who stabbed him in the back, got the girl, and was constantly fawned over for his athletic ability.

In this dramatic moment that is written in a marvelous slow-motion and detailed way, all of these things run through Dan’s mind. Why should he continue to do the dirty work while others get the credit? All of the past transgressions run through Dan’s mind before he knocks the defender on his ass and the crowd roars in approval. Not for the block, but for the excellent cut the running back made before scoring the touchdown.

It is a juvenile book that is a bit overwrought and I loved every page.

I had my own Dan Keith moment as a junior in high school. The school year had just started and my good friend Eric Leonhart and I both had a goal to crack the varsity starting lineup in football. We lifted weights all summer and were ready once camp started, Eric earning a starting role while I was splitting time at nose guard with a senior. We were proud of our accomplishments and walked down the hallways with an air of confidence. At least I did until Jennifer Grubish, one of our football cheerleaders, asked me if I was going to the football game Friday night.

Honestly, I was struck speechless. I think I stammered out an “Uh, yeah,” but I think Fer (not Jenni) could tell by the look on my face that something was amiss. When the shock that no one knew I was going to be playing on that varsity field subsided and my wits returned, I told her that I would be there on the sidelines, in uniform, you know, playing the game. Somewhat embarrassed, she said that she would see me there and hurried away.

It was that moment when I realized playing high school football was not going to instantly transform me into the stud of the school, especially as a lineman. Kenny Chesney singing about being “The kings of the school, man, we’re the boys of fall” was full of shit, at least in my school in 1989. While the dream of being a running back died slowly, it was replaced by the thrill of the workmanlike precision of the line, operating as a unit in an intricate dance designed to overpower the opponent with better blocking angles or simply putting more people at the point of attack. The thrill of blindsiding an opponent on a trap, kicking out an end, or steamrolling a cornerback on a sweep became a source of pride.

That pride and craftsman mentality was cultivated by our line coach Mr. Ed Draheim. He was a phy ed teacher at our school, so of course we called him “Physical Eddie,” but not on the football field. There, he was simply coach. Eric and I would grin at each other during our pregame chats in our position group because coach would pump us up by laying the weight of the world on our shoulders.

“It all starts with us on the line,” he would say in such an intense way that you would have thought we were on a mission to save the country from foreign invaders.

But what really established that sense of pride was during practice. After working our tails off pounding on dummies and each other, we were always the last group to return to the rest of the team. And it was at this moment coach would say, loud enough for the quarterbacks and running backs to hear, “Jog it over with the touch boys.”

This simple line might not seem like much to the casual observer, but to us it meant everything. It validated the fact that we worked hard and hit every day while our precious “skill” positions were too valuable and delicate to take the pounding we dished out and received continuously. It oozed just the right amount of sarcasm. Whether our running backs and quarterbacks knew that shade was being thrown on them or not, it didn’t matter. We knew. Coach knew what he was doing and we would do anything for him and for the team. It didn’t matter that we didn’t get our names in the paper and no one knew who we were. We played because we loved the game and we played for each other.

Head coach Jerry Peterson also played into this mentality during practice when he stated, “You know, we put our worst athlete at quarterback.” I don’t think there have ever been bigger grins on our line’s faces than that day.

One of my former high school football teammates posted a story on Facebook that said offensive linemen are the best humans on earth for the simple fact that they do the dirty work while others receive the credit. No one (outside of maybe a line coach) keeps track of the awesome blocks a lineman makes. Instead, teams tally yards and touchdowns for a select few. This selfless devotion earns the linemen little in the way of appreciation outside of the people who actually know what is going on. But it is that work ethic and lack of concern for taking credit that makes linemen who they are: The kind of people who are dependable, selfless, and willing to do their part for the success of the whole.