Path To Glory
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2008 by Brendan Buckley

By the end of my sophomore year of high school, my future was set.

I was a solid student, starting quarterback on the state champion football team and certified cock hound. I was untouchable. I had colleges lining up scholarship offers — the big boys.

People flocked to my little hometown come Friday nights just to catch a glimpse of me in action. Men and boys wanted to be me and girls and women wanted to be with me.

I wouldn't dream at night. Who needed to dream? Nothing could stop me.

I'm older now. My future didn't quite turn out the way I thought it would. With a couple of notable exceptions, it turned out better.


My path to glory started when I was 10. I was a gangly kid — all arms and legs. But my right arm was my ticket to fame. I could throw a football like nobody's business. By instinct, finely honed on the sandlots of our town, I knew when to throw hard, when to throw soft and just how much arc to put on the ball.

My peewee coach was no fool — and pass blocking was well beyond the skill set of 10 year olds — so he taught me the roll-out pass. By the time I was 12, our offense was unstoppable and the middle school coach couldn't wait for me to hit seventh grade.

By the summer I turned 12, I was 6-feet tall and could throw a football 50 yards — farther when rolling to my right. I was the starting middle school quarterback two days into summer practice — much to the chagrin of last year's backup who was now an eighth-grader. Too bad. He wasn't as good as I was. I knew it. He knew it. The coach knew it. The only person who didn't know it was the boy's dad, who threw a hissy fit and forced his son to quit the team.

I also played basketball, so I was king of the school — a fact I didn't let anyone forget. I was an insufferable bastard — literally. I've never been told who my father is. It didn't matter. My mom was always enough. She worked her tail off to raise me. My mom is the smartest woman I've ever met — even now. She ran a small television station in a town about 20 minutes away. When she took over, the station was about to close. When she left, it was outperforming stations in the Pittsburgh area about 100 miles to the north.

Her work schedule didn't matter. She always made time for me. I don't think she missed an event in my scholastic career — and not just football. She went to basketball games, soccer games, class plays and choir concerts. You name it. If I did it, she was there. And I didn't appreciate it.

That's OK. I didn't appreciate anything at that point in my life. I don't know where I learned to act that way. It certainly wasn't from my mother. I think I just figured out I could act like a jerk and people would let me get away with it. So I did.

It seemed like the bigger jerk I was, the more girls liked me. And the crappier I treated a girl the more likely it was I was able to date her best friend. I've said it for years (and the YouTube craze only confirms it), teenaged girls are the dumbest creatures on the planet.

After an 8-0 seventh grade year (the seventh consecutive undefeated season for the middle school), we followed up with an 8-0 eighth-grade year, too. Not surprisingly, I became even a bigger jerk when I started getting letters from college football coaches. It's sad to think a college football coach has nothing better to do than check to see how well a middle school kid in West Virginia is doing. But, given the volume of mail I received after my eighth-grade year, it seems they don't.

I made quite an impression during summer camps before I started high school. I finally was paired with a coach who could take what I already knew and teach me how to do it better. With a summer of learning fundamentals and unlearning some bad habits I'd picked up I entered ninth-grade thinking I'd be able to compete for the starting varsity quarterback job.

If you know anything about the politics of small-town football, you know that competition is not how most starting jobs are determined.

I was arrogant and condescending to everyone — coaches included. I was at my worst when I didn't get my own way. Midway through the first week of freshman football camp, I proved how big a pain in the ass I could be.

The varsity coach hadn't even shown up at practice to see me play and I was pissed. So, instead of working harder, I turned into a petulant, snotty brat. I refused to participate in drills and I told the freshman coach I wouldn't be back for the second half of two-a-days if the head varsity coach wasn't going to bother to check out how much his future star quarterback could help him.

The freshman coach told me that was fine with him. He was tired of my prima donna act already. So I could stay at home for all he cared.

My mom got home about 30 minutes before the start of evening practice and asked me why I wasn't ready to go.

When I told her I quit, my mom got a look of fury in her eyes I've only seen on two other occasions — neither directed at me, thank God.

"Robert James Hartley," she said through gritted teeth. "You get your shit and you get your ass in the car. You gave your word. You made a commitment. It may not mean a shit to you, but it does to me."

A few things you need to know. My name is Robert James Hartley, but I'm only called that by my mother when she is truly angry. Everyone called me Jay. The second thing is my mother never, ever cursed. I mean never a "shit" when someone cut her off in traffic. Never a "damn it" when she hit her thumb with a hammer. By the time I was 12 I had learned all the curse words and believed I needed to mix at least one into every sentence.

But not my mother. So to get a "shit," an "ass," and another "shit" in one sentence, I did what every teenaged boy in my situation would do — I argued with her.

I'm pleased to say I made it my entire life without being struck above or below my ass by my mother. I was spanked a few times when I was being a little butthole as a kid, and I deserved a few cracks in the chops as I got older, but she always managed to restrain herself. I truly believe this was the closest she every came to striking me. A couple of fathers took shots at me after I used their little girls and discarded them, but that's a story for later.

In the end, let's just say I grabbed my stuff, got my butt in the car and returned to practice.

You've never quite tasted humiliation until your mother accompanies you to practice. My coach took one look at my mother leading me to practice and I know he thought, "Oh, no. Another parent is going to tell me how to run my team."

He couldn't have been more wrong.

My mom stopped in front of the coach and said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear: "My son is here to apologize to you and his teammates. I am here to make sure he is sincere in his apology. From this day forward, during practice and games, he is yours to use as you see fit. If you want him to be the water boy, he'll be the water boy. If you want to run laps every practice, he'll run laps the entire practice. What he will not do is quit."

Then, using Robert James Hartley again, she told me I had some fences to mend with my coach and teammates and I'd "better damned well mend them right."

When I muttered, "Uh, sorry coach," she told me that wasn't good enough. And she stood there, hands on her hips, until I apologized thoroughly not just to the coach but to each teammate — right down to the kids who spent the rest of the season filling cups for the ones who actually played.

I was humiliated, but I was not broken. In fact, I was madder at the end than I was earlier in the day. I ran for what seemed like days while the rest of the kids practiced. Then I did the same the next morning and the next evening. With every step, I got madder and madder at my mom. In fact, it was almost a week before I spoke to her at all. That's OK. She wasn't real pleased with me at the time either so we were even.

The third day after my walkout, I came to practice ready to run some more, but coach pulled me aside and handed me my red "do-not-hit" quarterback's pullover.

"You've got a cannon for an arm and a peashooter for a brain, boy," he told me. "If you listen to your mom a little more I think you'll be OK and be able to get out of this town."

He told me he knew I'd gotten recruiting letters, but those letters would stop as quickly as they started if I wasn't playing. He said he'd let bygones be bygones, but the next time I pulled a stunt like that I wouldn't have to quit. He'd toss me off the team and let my mom handle it.

That was not a prospect I wanted to face, so I kept my mouth shut. In fact, I rarely said anything to anybody. Maybe no one else could see it, but I knew I was too good to be playing with these yahoos.

Fortune smiled on me (or misfortune befell another, however you want to look at it) midway through summer drills. The JV quarterback broke his collarbone when he was hit by a car. The JV team had a game a few days later, so in one fell stroke, I was on the JV team. High school rules dictated I could play five quarters not including overtimes per week in any combination of freshman, junior varsity or varsity competition.

The way the schedule fell (Friday to Thursday), I could play two quarters of JV, which played Wednesday, play two quarters of freshman the following Monday and still have three quarters left to backup up the starter on varsity the next Friday night.

The junior varsity game was a laugher — we scored the first three times we touched the ball — and I was done by halftime, giving way to the JV backup who would have to play at least a quarter or two each week until the other kid healed.

The freshman game wasn't much of a contest either. I played a quarter before coach pulled me in favor of the kid who had taken all the snaps (and hits) in practice.

I wasn't happy, but I kept my mouth shut and sat on the end of the bench sulking the rest of the night. I got an earful from my mom on the ride home about being a member of a team and how those kids worked harder than I did (mostly because they had to) and I should respect and cheer their efforts as much as they cheered mine.

In one ear, out the other. The varsity game Friday night was a laugher the other way. We got the crap kicked out of just like we did every year by the same team in our opener. Sure, we got manhandled, but I didn't get a single play.

Our second game of the season was against another good school — in fact, it's the second-largest school in the city our first opponent came from — and we trailed by 21 entering the third quarter.

The freshman coach served as an assistant for the varsity and he grabbed my arm on the way out of the locker room.

"Keep your helmet on and stay about two steps away from coach the rest of the game," he told me. "Keep your head in the game and your mouth shut."

My foray as coach's shadow lasted one series into the second half. After our third-year starter, who'd managed to produce back-to-back two-win seasons as starting quarterback, tossed his fourth interception of the game, the coach turned around and started scanning the bench.

He saw me standing two feet from him. "Jesus Christ, it looks like at least someone is ready to play," he said. "You're in next series."

I think this decision, more than any other he made, cost coach his job at the end of the year. First, the starter's dad was a school board member. But, more importantly, I was a freshman who had no problem telling anyone who'd listen just how good I was.

No one had a problem with coach benching the starter, and coach probably could have kept his job if he'd put in the junior I shared back-up duties with.

But, I certainly didn't let coach down. He proved he had been watching (or one of his assistants had) at least a little bit, with his first play call — a design roll out-fly pattern down the right sideline. The receiver got a step behind his defender and that's all it took. My first varsity play was an 80-yard touchdown pass. I threw two more TDs that night — on plays I'd changed in the huddle — but we still lost 38-28. It was an auspicious debut — 11-of-15 passing for 215 yards and 3 TDs.

I didn't care if we lost. I was happy as I could be on the bus home. I was the only happy one, though, and a couple of seniors made a trip by my seat to inform me it was a team game.

In one ear, out the other.

There was a new sheriff in town. There was no way I wouldn't be the starter from then on. How could I not be?

Apparently how I could not be starting was easily answered. I practically floated through school Monday — right up to the time the announcement came releasing all the freshman football players from class to prepare for an away trip.

I was in math class and, of course, I made no effort to get up. I mean, I was starting varsity, right?

Wrong.

"Mr. Hartley, your name is on the list to be released," my teacher told me. "You need to leave now."

I figured at least I'd get out of geometry, so I wandered down to the locker room to be met by my freshman coach standing there staring at his watch.

"You're late," he told me. "And you're not wearing proper clothes. You owe me 3 miles tomorrow. Now get your stuff and get on the bus."

So I played two quarters of freshman football three days after I'd thrown 3 touchdowns against one of the best teams in the state during varsity play. My lackluster effort didn't matter. The freshman team was good — and even half-hearted I was still better than anyone we played against.

Friday night came and went with me sitting on the bench during another loss, this time to a team we should have defeated handily. But, when your offense is shackled with a quarterback who is as likely to throw the ball to the other team as often as he throws it to yours, it's pretty easy to stop. Our senior quarterback completed three passes that night — each one to a player in black. For the record, we wore white on the road and blue at home.

We were 0-3. Our starting quarterback had 6 interceptions in 14 pass attempts and he'd managed to put up a grand total of 13 points in nine quarters of action. I'd put 28 points on the board at quarterback in less than two quarters, a fact that was not lost on some of the team's most vocal boosters — the starter's dad not among them.

The next week was my JV week, and we finally had a home game. I showed up dutifully at 5 p.m. for our 7 p.m. game, only to be met by my freshman coach at the locker room door again. I knew I wasn't late this time — he'd about run my butt off last Tuesday.

"You're beside me with the clipboard tonight," he told me. "Chart the plays and keep the stats. You won't be playing."

I started to say something, but I kept my mouth shut and got into my uniform. The JV head coach saw me in my uniform and told me to change back to street clothes.

"We won't be needing you tonight," he told me, then he was gone.

I wasn't sure if I'd been suspended for something or I was being punished for something. But I did recognize that I hadn't played a full football game this season and this crap was starting to wear thin. The JV and varsity players didn't talk to me because I was a freshman. I didn't talk to the freshman players because I was so much above them. Now I was expected to stand on the sideline for at least two games a week and never play. I guess my freshman coach took my mom's water boy comment at face value.

Unwilling to face the wrath of my mother, I stood on the sideline and charted plays and stats for the game. I found it's a tedious, thankless job. I've never been a football fan. I don't watch pro games. I don't watch college games. And I sure as heck wasn't interested in watching a junior varsity game. But I did my best (which wasn't very good because I had to ask the girl who usually kept stats a question about every three plays).

As the team was leaving the field, the JV head coach pulled me aside.

"Did that go OK?" he asked.

I told him the stats thing was little harder than I'd thought it would be, but I guessed it was OK.

"Coach doesn't want to take girls on the bus to away games," he told me. "Since you're traveling with us anyway, I figured I'd train you to do it."

In two weeks, I'd gone from thinking I was the starting varsity quarterback to being the stinking statistician.

I tried to hide by disappointment, but I'm not sure I succeeded. "OK, coach," I said. "If that's what you need."

So, that Friday night, as my team got butchered again, I stood on the sideline wearing a baseball cap and carrying a clipboard. The girl stood beside me the entire game and helped me along as best she could. But I really didn't care if I got things right. I cared about my stats, not someone else's.

At least they let me wear a uniform this time.

When I got to the home freshman game the following Monday, my freshman coach met me at the door with the clipboard again. My look must have spoken volumes.

"Sorry," he told me. "Coach's orders. They need accurate varsity stats for the newspaper. He wants you to work tonight's game and travel with the JV Wednesday to make sure you're ready for Friday's game."

At least I got to practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The team we played Friday was a pass-happy squad, so I got to be the other team's quarterback and throw the ball all over the field. It was small solace, but at least it was something.

Friday at 2 p.m. I was released from class, made sure I had a pocket full of pencils and headed to the locker room. I picked up my uniform that hadn't needed to be laundered in three weeks, grabbed my clipboard and headed to the bus.

There is a definite hierarchy on high school bus trips. Seniors get the back; juniors the middle; sophomores the front. Freshmen (or at least this freshman) sat with the managers amid the equipment. No one speaks on the way to a game. If you win, you can talk on the way home. If you lose, it's best to sit silently and ponder the disgrace that's befallen the school at your hands.

I was sitting there, lost in the stony silence, staring out the window wondering if my whole high school career was going to be spent this way. Maybe I'd play soccer next season.

"Hartley," the varsity coach whispered. "You remember your stuff?"

I nodded and pulled my freshly sharpened No. 2 pencils out of my suit pocket.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Not those," he said. "Your uniform."

I showed him my bag was tucked beneath my feet.

"Slide that up here and stretch your legs out," he told me. "You're starting tonight."

I gulped and heard the geeky manager beside me snicker.

"Um, sure coach," I told him. I was pretty sure I'd misheard him.

When we got to the locker room, I found out I hadn't. He pulled the former starter aside and told him he was still playing defensive back, but he wasn't going to play quarterback.

The kid took it with all the grace a 17-year-old could muster — he didn't cry but I'm sure he wanted to — and he glared at me as he walked past.

I didn't have time to be nervous — not that I would have been nervous anyway.

As we headed out to the field, my freshman coach grabbed my arm.

"If you change one play we send in, you'll never see the field again this season," he told me. "If you disagree with the play selection, too bad. We've been coaching this game since before you were born. Am I straight?"

I told him I understood.

It seems my performance a few weeks earlier was forgotten — or disregarded as luck — because the first-quarter play selection was a litany of hand-offs to the right, to the left and up the middle.

On first-and-10 we ran the ball. On second-and-eight we ran the ball. On third-and-six we ran the ball. Then we punted. Four possessions, 16 offensive plays including four punts.

You could train a monkey to play quarterback. All I had to remember was which side was odd and which side was even on the play calls — something I'd learned when I was 10.

The assistant coach kept telling us we were softening them up: the runs would start working eventually. I figured they'd start working when the defense died of boredom. But I didn't change a play. I looked to sidelines a couple of times when the play was being signaled in and made the poor assistant repeat the signs, but I ran the plays they called.

We trailed 7-0 entering the second quarter and by the same score at halftime. At least all the passes I'd thrown in practice that week had helped the defense. The former starter's dad tried to pigeonhole coach on the way to the locker room, but Coach avoided him.

The first series of the third quarter started the way the second quarter ended, but on third-and-seven, I saw something I hadn't seen in weeks — a passing play.

It was a "pop pass" — essentially the tight end releases a few yards from the line of scrimmage and you throw him the ball. It's high percentage, but the tight end is almost assured of getting clobbered as soon as he catches the ball. You could count on about a two-yard gain, but at least it was a pass play.

Fortune struck again as a linebacker read the play from the line of scrimmage and covered the tight end like a blanket. The play is so simplistic it is only a two-progression read (most passing plays give the quarterback at least three — usually four — options): the tight end was the first read; run like hell was the second. With the bear of a linebacker draped over the only receiver in the pattern, I took the second option.

I had started to roll left when I saw the tight end come free as the linebacker started pursuing me. I flipped him the ball and he rumbled for 16 yards and our second first down of the game (the first came via penalty).

We followed with a quick screen pass for another first down, and the rest, as they say, is history. Three plays later we were in the end zone and whatever self-imposed shackles the coaching staff had placed on themselves were gone. The rest of the game we mixed draw plays with short passes and handoffs with long passes. The defense didn't know what hit them and we won our first game of the season.

By the last game of the season, we'd rebounded from 0-4 to 5-4 and we had an outside shot at a berth in the 16-team playoffs. We did our part, routing our rivals (and the kid I'd replaced at quarterback in seventh grade), but missed the postseason by a tenth of a point in my state's arcane, archaic ratings system when a team we'd beaten earlier in the season lost its finale to a team that hadn't won a game at that point.

I finished the season with more than 1,000 yards passing (on fewer than 100 attempts) and 16 TDs. It was good enough for honorable mention all-state records.

Our 6-4 record wasn't good enough to allow coach to keep his job. He took crap from one side for waiting until we lost our first four games to start me. He took crap from another side for benching a two-year starter and costing him a small-college scholarship. In the end, both sides joined together to oust the coach. He told me at the time he was happy to be leaving. I doubt he'd think that way two years later.

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