The Final Game

It’s going right, I thought. Sure enough, the running back went in motion and the ball was snapped.

It was the football sectional championship in 2009, my senior year. My team, the NorthWood Panthers, was facing the Jimtown Jimmies, our archrival. We were looking to make ourselves back-to-back 3A Sectional 18 champs. We were also out for revenge as we had fallen to the Jimmies in overtime the first game of the season.

As the running back went in motion, I began to float over to the play side from my strong safety position. Just as I had been expecting, the quarterback handed off. I picked up speed as I headed toward the line of scrimmage. Running out of room along the sideline, the back decided to cut up field, and that was when I made my move.

I braced my body for impact as I hurled all 190 pounds of myself at the ball carrier. He had seen me coming, and accelerated towards me, lowering his body to protect against the oncoming blow. We collided with a tremendous crash, both of us dropping straight to the ground.

“Nice hit, John!” I heard my teammates yelling. “You messed him up!”

I wanted to jump up and celebrate the play with my teammates, but all I could think about was the white-hot pain that had engulfed my left shoulder.

Our free safety, my best friend, ran up to congratulate me, but stopped when he noticed the pain that must have been etched across my face.

“Are you alright, man?” he asked.

I looked at him and said matter-of-factly, “I just dislocated my shoulder.”

As the clock expired on the first quarter, we ran off the field to get some water and have a short meeting with our coaches. The first thing I did was walk over to my defensive backs coach.

“I can’t move my arm,” I told him. I also told him that, as a two-way starter and team captain, there was no way I was coming out of this game. He understood completely and told me to do the best that I could. I avoided our athletic trainer and headed back onto the field, asking a teammate to strap up my helmet on the left side, as I could not raise my arm.

Two plays later, it was third down and Jimtown had the ball inside our 20-yard line. The game was still scoreless, and a stop here would be huge.

The quarterback handed off to the same running back, off the right side of our defense once again. I would later learn that the running back had felt the effects of our collision as well, and this would be his last carry of the game.

But none of that mattered at this instant. Expecting a run, I had inched up to the line of scrimmage. As I saw the running back take the handoff, I stormed into the backfield, grabbing the runner with my good right arm. As my left arm hung limply at my side, I wrapped myself around him and brought him to the ground behind the line of scrimmage, giving us that badly needed stop.

As my teammates once again began to celebrate, I took my time getting up as the fire in my shoulder had intensified with that last hit.

By this time the coaches had noticed my injury, and called me off the field instead of allowing me to join the offensive huddle, where I was the tight end. Our trainer met me as I jogged off the field, and began to make his preliminary diagnosis.

After a short examination, he determined that it was not dislocated, but as to the extent of other damage he could not be sure. Following a short dispute, he allowed me to finish the half, promising to perform a further examination at halftime.

We battled hard throughout the second quarter, and headed into halftime down 7-0.

In the locker room, the trainer had me take off my shoulder pads which was, in itself, a task. Almost every test he had me perform resulted in extreme pain filling my entire arm.

 “There is too much pain for me to get an accurate diagnosis at this point,” he told me. I was given the OK to play as much as my pain threshold allowed me.

Given the game situation, and the fact that I have been blessed with an extremely high tolerance for pain, I went and told the coaches that I was good to go for the second half.

I fought as hard as I could in the second half, making tackles and blocks with only one arm. The pain had receded from its initial intensity, but was still agonizing. Numbness had also developed, stretching from my neck to the tips of my fingers.

The game went back and forth, as we tied it with a touchdown, and then Jimtown went up by a field goal that would prove to be the decisive margin.

As the clock ticked down to zero, I began to cry, out of pain, frustration, and the realization that I had just played my last down of high school football. I had truly left it all on the field. I simply didn’t have any left to give. This knowledge was of little comfort to me.

As I stood on the field crying with my teammates, my brothers, one of our assistant coaches came up to me.

“John, I just want to thank you for your effort tonight. That was one of the best displays of heart I have ever seen. I know you’re hurt and you didn’t have much left at the end, but all you had to give is still out there. So thank you.”

Although I only managed to mumble a quick thanks through my tears, I was humbled by these words. This praise of my effort, my heart, meant more to me than a thousand people congratulating me on my skill.

After the season, basketball started although I missed the first few weeks as first my trainer, then 
another doctor, and finally an orthopedic surgeon tried to determine my injury. The final diagnosis was an extreme pinched nerve, deep in my shoulder. It resulted in constant pain and numbness for over a month, and I still get occasional pain and numbness today. However, I would gladly play that game again, injury and all, just to get one more chance to play under the Friday night lights.

Overtime Thriller

Finally, it was the fourth quarter and I was allowed to go back in the game. We were playing the Fairfield Falcons, and the game had been a dogfight the whole way.

  
It was the fourth game of my junior basketball season, and I was splitting time between the varsity and JV. Consequently, I was only allotted two quarters a night on the JV. On this particular night, I was playing the second and fourth quarters.

My specialty on that team was defense and rebounding. Our coach had saved me, along with Dave Zeltwanger, our other defensive stopper, for the end of the game and we were ready to go.

Two minutes into the fourth quarter, Dave picked up his fourth foul. This was hardly a surprise as the referees had been terrible all game. I had been playing with three fouls since the first quarter. As Dave was sent to the bench, I moved over to guard their star player. I did my best, but he was good and the game was tied when I was whistled for my fourth foul with just over two and a half minutes left.

Knowing it was now or never, our coach sent Dave back into the game. Together, we shut down Fairfield and we were up two with thirty seconds to go.

And then the refs bailed them out. Two straight bad calls put the Falcons on the free throw line, and just like that they were ahead by two points.

We pushed the ball up the court, and our point guard found Dave open under the basket for the tying layup!

The clock ticked down as they brought the ball up for what would be the last shot. As the point guard turned his back, I went for the steal. He never saw me coming as I cleanly picked his pocket and took off for the basket. I laid the ball in, and then I heard the whistle.  

Carrying. The officials had given the Falcons yet other chance. With only two seconds left on the 
clock, their half-court shot fell short and we were headed into overtime.

The incredibly unfair officiating had given us a fire and we came out ready to go. I hit Dave with a long pass on a fast break to start the extra period, and we were in business. Continuing to find the open players, we built a six point lead.

As often happens in basketball, the Falcons picked this exact moment to heat up. It seemed as if every shot they threw up went in, and just like that it was again tied with fifteen second left.

Our point guard slowly brought the ball up the floor, setting up our carefully designed play. Our goal was to get the ball to our best shooter, and let him take the last shot. Fairfield knew this would happen, however, and he was covered.

Seeing everyone was covered, I flashed to the middle of the lane. With no one else open, our point guard fired me the ball. I took one dribble, pump faked, pivoted, and put up my shot.

I am not a scorer. I started every game my senior year, and only managed to average four points per game. I was under strict instructions not to shoot from beyond 15 feet, and for good reason. But on this night, the ball was in my hands.

I had misjudged exactly where I was on the court. Thinking I was closer to the middle of the lane, my shot was off. Instead, I was extremely close to the basket, and my shot hit the bottom of the rim.

How could I have missed such a bunny?! I was filled with thoughts of embarrassment and anger over missing the game winning shot, especially at such close range.

And then, as if guided by an unseen hand, the ball spun up over the top of the rim and in! Fairfield rushed to inbound the ball, but it was too late. The buzzer sounded as my teammates stormed onto the floor. We had won!

Not only was it great to win a game against all odds, my play that night got me noticed. I kept working hard, and when one of our varsity starters got hurt later in the year, it was me that got the nod to start.

Batter Up!

“Batter up!” yelled the umpire.

I looked down the third baseline at my coach as I thought about the situation. It was the second round of sectional play my senior year, and I was leading off the top of the seventh inning, with my team down 6-2.

“Find a way, John,” my coach yelled. “We just need a baserunner.”

I took a deep breath as I began my pre-pitch routine. I stared out at the pitcher and tried to think of what he was likely to throw. Our team had been getting fastballs inside all day, and I expected more of the same.

The pitch comes in, curveball, low and away.

“Stttrrriiiiikkkkeeee one!” the umpire yells.

That’s ok , I think to myself. You didn’t want that pitch anyway. Wait him out, he’ll give you something you can hit and then jump on it.

The pitcher followed with another curve in the dirt, and I let it go to even the count at 1-1. Not wanting to get behind, the pitcher threw a fastball low and inside, my sweet spot.

I swung was hard as I could as my hips flew open, ripping the bat through the zone. As I felt the ball make contact, I knew I had hit this one well. The ball took off, soaring through the night sky down the left field line. As I rounded first, I heard the crash of the ball hitting the fence.

“Foul ball!!”

Disappointed, but now more determined than ever, I walked back to the plate, picked up my bat, and dug in.

Knowing he had gotten lucky, the pitcher refused to give me anything else good to hit. Mixing up curveballs low and away, fastballs up and in, and the occasional nasty slider, he managed to keep me off balance. I kept battling, however, and, six pitches later, the count was 2-2.

Having already fouled off seven pitches I was beginning to tire. I stepped out of the box to catch my breath and regain my composure.

“Keep battling, John!” I heard my coach yell down from the third base coaching box.

I straightened my helmet as I dug in once again. The pitch came in right down the middle, just as I’d been waiting for.

As I started my swing, I suddenly had a horrible realization. This pitch floating down the middle was not the fastball I had thought it to be, but rather an agonizingly slow knuckle ball.

Somehow managing to slow down my swing, I nicked the ball with the end of my bat, the barely audible ping being the only indicator I had not just struck out.

Backing out of the box, I took a few slow practice swings.

 I’m going to get a hit, I thought. No other thoughts crossed my mind, except the simple fact that I was going to get a hit.

The next pitch was a fastball in on my hands. Not surprisingly, I simply fouled it off yet again. The at-bat now totaled 12 pitches, including nine foul balls.

I was now almost exhausted from the physical and mental strain of such a long battle.

The thirteenth pitch came sailing in, a hanging curveball on the outside half of the plate. Straining, I reached out and managed to poke the ball over the shortstop’s head for a single.

We went on to lose the game, although it was filled with personal success as I went 3-3 in my final high school game.

After the season, during the awards banquet, my coach brought up this at-bat. “This at-bat was the epitome of John’s career,” he said. “It wasn’t the prettiest, but he kept battling and eventually got the job done.”

USC, Bush scandal extends to Heisman

By John Sittler, September 24, 2010

Throughout the 2005 college football season, there was no doubt who the best player was on the field.

Reggie Bush, a running back from the University of Southern California, thrilled fans and befuddled defenses with his ridiculous moves and blazing speed. He gained over 1,700 rushing yards to go along with almost 500 receiving yards and 18 total touchdowns.

At the end of the season he was awarded the Heisman Trophy, the annual honor for the best player in college football. He did not just win the Heisman, he won in a landslide. There was no question as to whether or not he deserved it.

Flash forward to early in the summer of 2010. USC was rocked by allegations of recruiting violations surrounding Bush and USC basketball standout OJ Mayo. The results of a four-year investigation revealed that Bush and his family had received benefits amounting to approximately $300,000.

The NCAA responded with swift punishment by banning the Trojans from post-season play for two years, placing them on four years of probation, and enforcing the loss of 30 football scholarships.

Also, they have been forced to forfeit their 14 victories from the 2005 season, including their National Championship Orange Bowl victory. The most controversial result, however, revolved around Reggie Bush and his Heisman.

In early September, reports were published saying that the Heisman Trophy Trust was going to strip Bush of his honor. While the Trust denied these reports, Bush eventually made the decision to return the trophy on his own. But it appears he was pressured into it. Many fans agreed with this, as they were haters of USC, or simply wanted to see “justice” done.

I am not so sure. While I completely agree with the sanctions imposed on the Trojan football program, what exactly did Bush gain by receiving those benefits? Did a night in a hotel make him faster? Did that new suit allow him to make those stop-on-a-dime cuts that left defenders groping air?

No.

Regardless of how much money he and his family received, he was still the best player in football.

This scandal has been compared to Barry Bonds and steroids, but the two situations are actually radically different. While Bonds has only “allegedly” taken steroids, let’s assume for the sake of argument that he did. Without the steroids and increased muscle size it seems unlikely he would have broken Hank Aaron’s home run record.

If he is allowed to keep his record, it is safe to say without a doubt that Bush should keep his. As I stated above, the benefits Bush received in no way, shape or form affected his on-field play.

Another argument for Bush forfeiting this trophy is that he would not have been as good without the tremendous supporting cast he had at USC.

This might be partly true, although I believe that he still would have put up huge numbers had he played for a lesser team. He proved this by making a large portion of his plays in the open field, just him one-on-one (or one-on-two, one- on-three, etc.) against defenders.

His talent is so rare, so once-in-generation that Reggie Bush without a doubt should be allowed to keep his Heisman Trophy as the best collegiate football player of the 2005 season.