The Football Hero

By Jim Black

In 1967, in the small, wind-swept town of Penny out in West Texas, Bobby Hargrove’s high school football career ended before it ever got off the ground. One year later, determined to try again, only one obstacle stands in his way—Head Coach Jack Stoner. Inspired by his best friend, Dilly, and a most unexpected admirer named Meg, Bobby anxiously awaits the chance to prove himself and guide the Pirates to victory. 

“Grab yourself a big ol’ glass of sweet tea and sit back for an afternoon of enjoyable readin’. This book has it all: Hard-nosed football, heartfelt romance and enough laughs to fill a No. 2 washtub. If I had my druthers though, it’d be called, The Football Hero and His Best Bud Dilly. But that’s just me.” —Dilly Binzwanger, Age 70

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Apr 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977264350

Jim Black

A lifelong Texan, Jim Black was born in Center, Texas, and grew up in Archer City. Today he resides in Wichita Falls with his wife, Lorrie. He is the author of several books and plays. For more information visit www.jimblackbooks.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

MY NAME IS Robert Dale Hargrove. People call me Bobby. I am sixteen-years-old, five feet seven inches tall, weigh one hundred and fifty pounds and am a sophomore at Penny High School in Penny, Texas. Penny is a nice town of about fifteen hundred people fifty-five miles northwest of Lubbock, halfway between Littlefield and Muleshoe on Hwy 84. There are four churches, three gas stations, three eating places, a grocery store, convenience store, hardware store, department store, pharmacy, bank, library, funeral home and one blinking red light. What else do you need? I’ve lived here with my mom my whole life. My dad left the day I was born. I guess he wasn’t big on commitment and responsibility. I couldn’t have a better mother though. Her name is Helen. Mom is a few inches shorter than me, with pretty gray hair she’s had since she was thirty. She’s a nurse at the little clinic here in town. As a result, most of the townspeople know her and everyone loves her. I work part-time mowing and watering fairways and greens at the local nine-hole golf course after school and occasionally on weekends. I’ve recently taken up golf and like it a lot but don’t have much time for it.

Football is my deal. I love the game. And I love playing quarterback. I don’t have a strong arm, but I am accurate and know how to throw before the receiver makes his cut so the ball will be there when he turns around. And how to spot man or zone coverage in a defense and anticipate a defender’s next move. The game comes natural to me. So much so that by my eighth grade year in junior high, Coach Seay was letting me call some of my own plays. We didn’t have a strong team but did manage to win more games than we lost. When it was done, I couldn’t wait to play high school football. Then, out of the blue, and most unexpectedly, my dream ended. Or, I should say, was taken away.

One Friday in May, near the end of the school year, my eighth grade teammates and I were summoned to the gymnasium where the varsity squad was going through plays. We would be joining them as freshmen in the fall. After changing into gym shorts and T-shirts, we filed into the gym. We all knew that Head Coach Jack Stoner was a hothead and prone to erupting at any moment. Rumor was he had never smiled. Not once in his life. He was taller than me, stocky, wore his hair buzzed and always had a cap on. And no amount of effort from his players was ever enough. I was standing against the wall with my buddies, watching the starters hustle through their plays when it happened.

Suddenly, Coach Stoner blew his whistle, glared my direction and said, Hargrove, get in there for Perkins! Cam Perkins, a junior, was the starting quarterback. He was a good five inches taller than me and twenty pounds heavier. All of it muscle. He stepped out of the huddle and I walked over. Thank goodness I’d been paying attention. Or at least I thought I had.

I stepped into the huddle, clearly the youngest and smallest of the group. The older players greeted me with looks of curiosity, impatience, and downright disdain. A few chuckled but not loud enough for Coach Stoner to hear. They knew the only person allowed to speak in the huddle was the quarterback. Even if he was a crummy eighth-grader. I called a play, 34-Dive and we broke the huddle. The team turned and sprinted to the line. A couple bumped me hard as I walked into position behind the center. Before I had a chance to do anything, I was grabbed by my shirt, spun around and dragged away. Coach Stoner’s face was beet red, veins bulging in his neck.

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’? he screamed.

I hadn’t a clue.

He then yanked me close, our faces just inches apart, and yelled, "NO PIRATE WALKS TO THE LINE OF SCRIMMAGE! GET YOUR SORRY ASS OVER THERE! And with that, he shoved me hard against the wall. Then, PERKINS, GET BACK IN THERE. MR. HARGROVE APPARENTLY HAS HIS OWN IDEAS ABOUT HOW TO PLAY QUARTERBACK. Then, glaring at me he said, Your quarterbacking days are over, son."

I felt my eyes fill. Coach, I said softly.

I don’t wanna hear it. You’re done, I said. He then turned and never looked my way again. Humiliated and heartbroken, I quietly began to cry. My eighth grade teammates were sneaking glances at me. They were as dumbfounded and surprised as I was over what had just transpired.

Chapter 2

WHEN TWO-A-DAY WORKOUTS began just prior to school beginning in early fall, I was a no-show. My heart simply wasn’t in it. And I had not forgiven Coach Stoner. In an instant, he had taken away something very dear to me without ever giving me a chance. No football meant I had more time to spend with my best friend, Dilly.

Dilly Binzwanger and I had been pals since fourth grade when he moved to town. We shared a common thread—we both lived in a one-parent home, though he lived with his father. I eventually learned his mother had died during his birth. His dad, Delbert, had moved them to Penny to be near his two sisters for support and help in raising his son. Dilly loved his aunts Rosie and Carla, and Delbert looked at them both as godsends. Dilly spent time in all three households growing up, but these days resided at home with his dad. Theirs was a little two-bedroom house several blocks from mine. Dilly maintained the yard and kept the inside clean while working part-time as a sacker at Ken’s Grocery. Delbert was employed by a farm equipment supply store in Littlefield as a mechanic, repairing tractors, plows, harvesters and such. He would occasionally stop by the It’ll Do Bar after work to enjoy a cold beer, but one beer only. Dilly would usually have supper ready when his dad got home. The two of them loved each other immensely and did the best they could.

Complications during Dilly’s birth had contributed to his health, he believed. Why else would he be smaller and frailer than others his age? He was often mistaken for being much younger than he really was. He stood five feet three inches, weighed one hundred twenty-five pounds, was never without his Buddy Holly style glasses with thick lenses and wore his black hair however it was when he woke up that morning. He also limped—a remnant of an early childhood bout with polio. Surgery had helped but not resolved the problem.

Dilly didn’t really care about any of that though. Hey, somebody’s gotta be small, wear thick glasses and be gimpy; might as well be me, he’d say. And always with a smile. How could you not be friends with a guy like that?

Oddly, most didn’t feel the way I did. Dilly really didn’t have other friends. Truth is, at times Dilly could be downright annoying. He was something of a prankster, often butted into conversations and sometimes wore the same clothes two or three days in a row. I had been popular in grade school and junior high, and many viewed my friendship with Dilly as odd. I didn’t pay attention to that. Dilly Binzwanger was loyal and caring and would have gone to war to defend me. And I would do the same for him.

Today we sat in our regular spot, in the back right corner booth at Bob’s Burger Barn, working on chocolate shakes. Mr. Walcott made a mean milkshake. The Burger Barn was a favorite place of ours. Inside, things were getting pretty old and worn and probably not much had changed since Mr. Walcott opened the place some twenty years ago. The red vinyl covering the booths and stools was cracked and foam was showing through in spots. And the counter and tabletops were faded and scratched, but we didn’t care. Mr. Walcott was a sweetheart of a guy and the food was great. The prices were good too. The other two places to eat in town were the Ranch House Restaurant at the edge of town and the Tasty Freeze. We preferred Bob’s. As we sat there and sipped our shakes, school was on our minds. It was beginning tomorrow.

Dilly frowned and said, "Man, I can’t believe you’re not goin’ out for football. Even if Stoner is a dipshit. That team needs you. Besides, you can’t end your football career on the Hankerton game. That’d suck."

The Hankerton game was my last junior high game played. It wasn’t for the championship (they’d already clinched the district), but we wanted desperately to beat them and end the season on a good note. And what a game it was. Suddenly I was back there.

Toward the end of the second quarter, Coach Seay had become totally frustrated with my play. Can’t say I blame him since I had fumbled twice (something I never do) and thrown an interception (which is even rarer). We were trailing 12-7 when Larry Koontz ran into the huddle and announced, Bobby, Coach said for you to go to right tackle and for Tommy to go to quarterback. We all stared at him, thinking he was joking. He wasn’t. And so I moved to tackle, with no idea how to play the position, and Tommy Dugan took over.

Playing offensive tackle is no fun. Especially if the guy across from you is huge and knows what he’s doing. As time was winding down, I was worn out physically from the beating I’d taken and mentally from the embarrassment and shame of having lost my position. Oh well, the game was about over, and with it the season. Only twelve seconds remained on the clock with us still trailing 12-7. We were at their 20-yard line, fourth down and one to go. Larry brought in the play from the sidelines.

Okay, listen up. Coach said for Bobby to go back to quarterback and Tommy back to halfback. Left Formation, 36-Belly Keep. Everyone stared at me. It was a fake to the fullback and a quarterback keeper around the left end.

Holy Cow.

Okay. Here we go, guys, I said. Left Formation, 36-Belly Keep. On hut. Ready, Break!

We broke the huddle and I walked to the line, knowing Coach Seay had placed the game squarely in my hands. I took a quick glance over and saw him smiling. I then turned, took a deep breath and called the signals.

Down! Set! Hut!

I took the snap, reversed out and faked a handoff to our fullback, Danny Franklin. I hoped it was a good one, or I was sunk.

It was.

Chapter 3

I STARTED AROUND left end. The cornerback and safety were nowhere to be seen. Nothing between me and the end zone but twenty yards of grass and air. Touchdown! After I crossed the goal line I was immediately engulfed by my teammates. The fans were going crazy.

We eventually lined up for the extra point kick and missed, but no matter. The score now read 13-12 in our favor. With only five seconds remaining.

We were still celebrating as we lined up for the kickoff. Coach Seay signaled for Charles to kick it away. We all exchanged looks. Surely he meant squib kick it. Or onside kick it. Something where they don’t have a chance to run it back. We were all staring at him. Kick it away! he signaled. Okay, I thought. Let’s go down there, make a tackle and win this thing.

Charles’ kick sailed to the 15-yard line where the Hawks’ fastest running back, Number 22, fielded it. He started to his left, dodged a couple of tacklers and broke into the open far across the field from me. I drifted that direction and watched in horror as he began streaking down the sideline. I immediately took off across