Friday, June 05, 2009
Since people keep telling me that I suck this week (I don't really care), I figured that I would end the week with a story so heroic, so monumental, and so epic that you will be shocked that I have yet to write about it. I've always wanted to wait until I could post the video of the event, but I'll never learn how to do that so instead you get a picture of 1983 NFL MVP, Mark Moseley. That's right, a kicker won the MVP that year.
So, normally, tomorrow I would be heading up to Dublin and watching some PGA Tour action at The Memorial. With Tiger coming back this year, it's sort of a big deal around these parts. I've went the previous two years and in year one I got kicked out and last year I could barely stand up due to my love of $8 LaBatt drafts. But I'm bailing on Jack's tournament this weekend to head back to the homeland. I'm not very pumped about it but She$ tells me that I need to go. Tomorrow night, old G$ will be attending his ten year high school reunion. It's a cash bar and we have no entertainment so you can obviously tell that this bitch is going to be a rager. But like I said earlier, it has given me time to hop into the way-back machine and share with you one of the greatest moments in sports history.
I have never tried to hide how much I hated high school football practice. It was the worst thing ever. You know how sometimes veterans come back from war and they just aren't the same that they used to be. Well, and no disrespect to them, having participated in 4 straight years of humid-ass two-a-days in northwest Ohio on fields of dead grass, that was where I became shell-shocked. It was horrible. That is the main reason why I can never understand why people would go watch their teams practice or scrimmage. It just brings back too many awful memories of 200 up-downs and hitting that god damn 7 man sled over and over and over again.
Anyway, you all remember Columbus's Hottest Bartender, right? Well, we developed an excellent gameplan our Sophomore year while we were trying to not be killed by the upperclassmen. Special teams practice occurred right after warming up and trying to be a "wedge buster" against guys that literally were trying to kill you did not seem like a feasible option to us. So, on the fly, we went with the kickers. He couldn't kick for shit so he settled on being my holder. He wasn't even a very good holder, but he was good enough to stick around. I mean, he was a lot better than Tony Romo, amirite!!! I, on the other hand, turned out to be a pretty solid practice kicker. I didn't do that faggy soccer-style shit either. I put on the square-toed boot and Pat Summerall'ed that fucker through the uprights. Three steps and BOOM! I did not have the biggest leg, but I was quite accurate from about 30-35 yards. Not too shabby for the 4th string guard, eh?
So I lasted through the first week of August and thus became firmly entrenched as one of the kickers on the team. I knew that I would never see the field during the game but I didn't give a fuck. The important thing was that I never ever ever had to practice kickoffs or kickoff returns again. And that was all that mattered.
Whatever, though, Reba and I kept working together as the 3rd string kicker/holder combo through our Senior season. My range stayed the same. And why should it improve anyway? I didn't give a fuck. I never worked at it. I barely worked on being a better o-lineman (I was already great though). Hell, I even stopped putting on the square-toe because I was too lazy to change shoes. So to set the scene, my entire Senior year, I practiced field goals with an offensive lineman's cleats. Yet I was surprisingly accurate. You can take all the soccer-style kickers on the planet and make them use their weirdo shoes to kick straight-on and I guarantee that I was more accurate than any of them.
Let me set the scene: it was a chilly November 1998 night inside Charles Buckenmeyer Stadium in Napoleon, Ohio. The Wildcats were set to lock up their first playoff appearance since 1986 with a win over the lowly Swanton Bulldogs. Words can't describe how shitty those guys were. I think we were up 35-0 or something at halftime. I'm not even sure if I played in the second half. We scored another touchdown at some point in the 4th and I was interrupted from my cheerleader orgy by our batshit insane defensive coordinator.
"G$!!! Get in there and make the extra point!"
Oh, fuck and yes. It was on now. The team was already lining up with the normal kicker ready to roll. I'm dead-sprinting to the tee hoping that they don't snap the ball. "RUSSELL (the kicker), GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! I've got this one." So I line up with my left foot next to the tee and take my three steps backwards. I'm pretty sure that our QB/holder was laughing that his starting RIGHT TACKLE was lining up for the extra point. I don't remember if we said anything to each other but I know that my only thought was, "you better get that fucking ball down". The announcer at the stadium (who just so happens to frequent strip clubs on Thursday afternoons) informed the crowd who was on for the PAT attempt. I can still hear all of those fans laughing. How fucking dare they? I'm going to kill them all. I'm a god damn icon! Our really stupid longsnapper shoots the ball back to Dan LeFevour's current bitch...everything is perfect.
Dead solid perfect, motherfucker. It was the definition of "The Money Shot". I kicked that fucker to the moon. EXTRA POINT GOOD. There was no wild celebration from the future blogger. Just two arms raised in the air like I was a fucking referee. This was no fluke. There was no luck involved. I "busted my ass" for three years in practice waiting for that moment and I came through in the clutch. Like I said, I have it on video somewhere but I'm too lazy to dig it up. All I do know is that EVERYONE congratulated me after the game. Not because I made it, no no, but because they didn't know that I could get my leg that high. Sigh. Bastards. I scored ONE point in my high school football career...not bad for an offensive lineman.
Before you make snide comments and try to minimalize the importance of this event, just ask yourself one thing: Have you ever seen (or heard of) a right offensive tackle kicking an extra point with a rounded shoe? No, of course you haven't. That is because I am the only one to achieve this sort of greatness. Damn, I really should have just told this story as a lead in to Memorial Day so you could honor your greatest American hero. Fantastic. Have a good weekend, I'll be seeing some of you at Rally In The Alley tonight. FYI, The Reaganomics are outstanding.