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The Redshirts

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

The snow was falling outside of the University of Iowa Field House. This is where I spent the best part of each day. There was activity everywhere, the basketball team was running drills up and down the court; the trackmen were over at the side of the Field House; the starting gun cracked as the sprinters sprang out of the blocks, they set up a mini track for the sprints and the hurdles; the shot putters threw their shot toward a dead end. I knew most of the athletes.

I walked over to the basketball courts and said hello to my buddy Eddie Swayner, who was on the varsity as a guard. He was a former local Iowa City High School star. I waved to Fred Rich who went to my high school (Roosevelt) in St. Louis, but he transferred before his senior year to the tri-city area of Davenport, Iowa. He was on a basketball scholarship at Iowa U. At Roosevelt he was also a terrific end on the football team. He was two years ahead of me but I sure remembered the team. His junior year they won the city and county championships; they were one of the best teams in the history of Roosevelt High School football.

Eddie came over and told me to come down to the Hawkeye Den that night, because he had some information I should know about. The Hawkeye Den was our local hangout. I had good friends at Iowa U, all were athletes, and we gathered at the "Den" in the evenings.

I went into the locker rooms, checked out a clean sweat suit, put on my football shoes, and headed for the area of the huge Field House where the football players gathered on special turf. Conny Stevens, a trackman from Des Moines, Iowa, walked with me. He was a sprinter and a freshman like me. Always laughing, he was a real funny guy, a joke a minute. We worked together when I first arrived in Iowa City, at the Iowa Café doing dishes and cleaning up. We split off and I saw Frank Carideo, our backfield coach, talking to our group. Al Demarco, the Iowa starting Varsity Quarterback two years before, gave me a wave to come over. Al was still in school finishing his graduate studies for a Master's degree and also helped out as an assistant backfield coach. He wanted to throw the ball and warm me up.

We had a routine for warming up using some of the tricks Al taught me. We started with stretching exercises, mostly for the shoulders, and then we would begin at 10 yards tossing the ball back and forth. He had some unique ideas for passing practice. We would stand with our feet together rocking up on the toes then throw, keeping a plane with the ball about head high and no less than a flip of the wrist with very little body movement and no leg flex. After so many tosses we would retreat to about 25 yards distance between us and throw some more. Then we would drop down on one knee and throw 30 to 40 passes, then switch knees for 30 to 40 more passes, then down on both knees giving the ball lots of wrist action. All the techniques were made to throw my wrist action, lost of wrist action. I knew this Q.B. training was more than college players normally experienced. It wasn't long before I could throw 50 yards kneeling with both knees to the ground.

Frank Carideo called me over to run the backfield at the Quarterback position. We ran out on a "T" formation, full backfield. Frank played at Notre Dame and Pro ball a few years with the Chicago Bears. He was rather short, about 5' 9", but extremely quick and well coordinated. Frank had come to Iowa five years earlier from Holy Cross with head coach, Eddie Anderson. My hours with Frank were a super time. He had a way of expressing himself on fundamentals that made them easy to follow. He could give a picture of what he wanted you to do so well it was a successful experience with each new task. No doubt some coaches or teachers are experts because they can show exactly how it is done.

Others may struggle to get their point across, but working with Frank was pure enjoyment. He was a master at footwork and ball handling. He could spin and fake the ball like Houdini. Between Frank and Al Demarco I know I got the best instruction possible.

This practice of six weeks was over in a few days. I made it a point to always be on time and stay as long as they wanted me to. I couldn't wait to get there every day.

We practiced for at least two to three hours each workout period and sometimes more, if the ends could stay longer to run pass patterns. We made a game of seeing how many passes we could complete. I was the only Q.B. but we had four or five ends and back every day. The records from a few days ago were 25 completions in a row. Now we were at 25 and all the guys wanted to catch 26. Conny Stevens ran across the field and I hollered, "Hey Conny!" I threw the ball about 40 yards, Conny threw up his hands, and the ball bounced off his shoulder and flew into the air. Everyone started to laugh.

We broke practice and Frank wanted me to stay for a minute. He asked me to come over to his house, as he had something he wanted to discuss. We set the time for 8:00 p.m.

There were rumors that Eddie Anderson was leaving Iowa and going back to Holly Cross University, and that a possible, very successful high school coach (Raffensberger) from Dubuque, Iowa was heading for Iowa U. It struck me as peculiar that Eddie Swayner and now Frank Carideo wanted to tell me something. Possibly the rumor was true.

About 8:00 p.m. I knocked on Frank's door. Frank's wife opened the door and helped me take off my leather jacket. It was of dark brown leather, a beauty, and I wore it every day.

When I first arrived at Iowa, Pat Boland, a line coach that was somewhat in charge of aid to players, sent me downtown to the local haberdashery. I was told I could pick out whatever I liked, up to $300.00. The jacket caught my eye immediately when I walked in Wilson's College Fashions. IT was the best store in town. I picked out the leather jacket, three pairs of pants, four shirts, three sweaters, plus shorts, T-Shirts, socks and a pair of dark brown calfskin shoes to match the jacket. This was my wardrobe day in and day out. If anyone wanted to find me, they could look for a guy in the brown leather jacket.

Frank was in the front room by the fireplace. It was cold outside, with a light snow falling, so he had some logs going. I sat down across from Frank. His wife brought me a hot chocolate as Frank was talking. He said that he really enjoyed working with me and could see that I had an exceptional liking for football, especially throwing the ball. He went on to say that he had never seen a player as a young as me who had my talent for throwing the football and that it was a God-given talent that is far and few between. He said, "People that have God-given talents can excel in whatever they are gifted at, or they can waste it away. It depends on what they do with their time. Practice and perfection is the way to go."

Frank was driving something home. He was giving me his last piece of advice before leaving Iowa. He thought enough of me to call me to his house and lay out his final words.

I asked him if it was true that he was leaving with Eddie Anderson to go back to Holy Cross University. His answer was, "Yes, it's true. In fact, Anderson is already back at Holy Cross, getting ready for next season." Frank said another coach is going to take over his Physical Education classes and that he and his wife and kids would be on their way soon.

I noticed some boxes piled up in the hallway and evidently it all was a fact, no rumor.

I had thought about what I was going to do if Anderson and Frank left Iowa. I thought I would be on my way as well and I told Frank that I probably would be leaving when the semester came to an end.

He wanted to know what I was going to do. I told him I would go back to St. Louis and work for a few months, but I would like to go to school out in California, a school like U.S.C.

Frank wanted to know why I chose U.S.C. and I stated that I knew of U.S.C. by the school's notoriety in football and that I had listened to their Rose Bowl game against Michigan on the radio. The announcer, Mel Allen, had talked about sunny Pasadena, the orange blossoms on the trees as seen from the Rose Bowl Press Box, and a temperature in the high 80's. The radio commentary caught my attention, as it was snowing in St. Louis.

Frank's wife was standing to the side listening and they both busted out laughing. Frank told me he knew the head coach of U.S.C., Jeff Cravath, very well and would contact him for me. He stated that he was sure Cravath would correspond with me.

We parted as the best of friends and I told Frank I would always think of him as the best coach a fellow could have, and if I ever had success as a Quarterback if would be due to his teaching. I thought what luck that I had the opportunity to have this man help me.

As I walked over to the Hawkeye Den, I felt emptiness in my stomach. This is one of the first times in my life I experienced this feeling. Frank was going to the East Coast, the New England area, and I possibly might be going to the other end of the country, Southern California.

Eddie Swayner was at a booth with Stubby Colinio and Joe Scarpatti, both on the wrestling team. As usual, the Hawkeye Den was jammed. I felt better, Stubby and Joe were old guys, service veterans, and both Big Ten wrestling champs. We usually got together at night for beers or for breakfast at the train station, one of our favorite eateries. Eddie being a local had all the news before anyone else and he could tell I had word about Anderson leaving and Raffensperger coming in.

We talked till very late and when we left it was snowing like hell, so they gave me a ride to the Quonset huts, where I lived across from the field house.

Spring time in Iowa is not like St. Louis. Iowa City is only about 300 miles north of St. Louis but the weather is quite different. There are long winters and a short spring time. After the snow comes the rainy season, no greenery, no flowers until June.

Besides studies, my time was spent at the field house working out. I played intramural basketball every day on two teams to keep busy. The weather outside was lousy. I became rather slim from running up and down the basketball courts.

The school semester was over about the time the weather started to change for the better I made up my mind that if possible I wanted to spend my life in a good climate where sports activities could be played outdoors the year round. As much as I enjoyed

The field house, I now had a new program to look forward to: possibly sunny California and the orange trees. I loved oranges.

I bid farewell to my buddies Eddie, Joe, Stubby, and Jim Benton, another local farewell at the train station after an early breakfast. I knew it would be a long time until I saw them again.

My folks were at home that evening when I arrived. We lived at 3224-A St. Vincent, a four-family flat, upstairs on the right-hand side. Always upstairs, right-hand side in the three homes or flats I ever lived in. I never got around to asking my dad how come it was always that way. He may have had a good reason.

Within a few days I had things cooking. I was starting a job reading electric meters for the electric company, thanks to my high school buddy Paul Birchfield. Paul, Ray Hummell, and a few other pals from Roosevelt were all working at the St. Louis County Union Electric Company, as meter readers. I was going to take over the routes of vacationing meter readers. Every day there was a new route out in the county.

For the first few weeks, Paul picked me up in his new light blue Mercury coupe, took me to the office where we picked our route books, and then he dropped me off close to my route. The boss had it figured out so that Paul worked in my vicinity to show me the ropes. I noticed that my route book was much thinner; bout found out quickly that a think book with fewer pages or fewer meters was not the best deal. The county was different, the meter could be on a pole a half mile down the road and then another half mile and then another. This could end up being a long day. But there are tricks to the trade in everything. Paul explained that I could move fast and finish early, sometimes by noon, then in the afternoon hit a public swimming pool in one of the suburbs.

So I ran to stay in shape, finished by noon, then in the afternoon laid around a pool and swam. I did not have to turn the book in or get a new book until the next morning. The boss was only concerned with getting the numbers on the meters, not what I did in the afternoon.

Of course there were some rainouts, but all in all it was a fine job for the few months I was an electric meter. I also had the best tan of all the meter readers.

On weekends I started playing Rugby with the Grand Rec, a pool hall sponsored, Rugby team. All the players were graduates from Roosevelt or McKinley high schools, and some had college football experience.

Rugby is a lot like football, only no pads are worn. I was in such great shape from running to read electric meters that Rugby was a cinch. I could run a whole half without getting tired.

I think I started a new style of local Rugby play one afternoon. All our games were at Forest Park and there was four games going on at one time, with plenty of room for more games. The Rugby field is wider and longer than a football field. From the scrum, half the team gets down in the huddle and starts butting head with the opponent huddle. Somewhat larger than a football, the Rugby ball is thrown in the middle of both teams huddle or scrub and it eventually is pushed or kicked out to the side. The rest of the team is spread out to the wide side of the field. They then toss the ball to an outside man, like a lateral pass, usually underhanded (and only a lateral pass is allowed,) and then to a wider-out player, stretching to the sideline. As a man gets the ball, he tosses out or runs forward if he sees a break in the opponent's defense.

I figured that if I stood next to the huddle, I could grab the ball and toss it overhand out to the widest position player near the sideline and then he could run forward with fewer people on defense to confront him. So we put the best runner out toward the sideline. The first few times I grabbed the ball at least 10 opponents hit me and fell on me. So I had to be as quick as hell and we worked it out so that two men at the end of the scrum or huddle would drop back in front of me to screen off the opponents but not block them, to at least give me enough time to throw the ball.

The first few games we dethroned the opponent. I would fire the ball out to the furthest Wingback and he would run like hell without too much opposition in front. Of course this runner got beat up before each game was over. We won games but had our best runners beat up before each game was over. We won games but had our best runners limping, casualties of war. I was given notice not to throw over handed. This was not allowed.

The opponents quickly changed their game plan and planted a couple of players directly across the line from me. If they saw the ball kicked off to my side, they came running like linebackers, not for the ball but for me. I really got smeared more times than needed. Most of these guys playing Rugby were ex-high school or college football players. They knew how to hit. In Rugby there is no interference blocking for the runner. They had a clean shot at me. I asked for a change of position.

Frank Hummell, a player on the Rugby team, also had a played on the Roosevelt High School and St. Louis University football teams. Frank had just graduated from St. Louis U and he and a fellow graduate (Bob Murray) were going to take a vacation and go to California. They were to drive a new Pontiac coupe to California for a transportation company. The deal was that the drivers only had to pay for the gas. I told Frank I might be going out to California and it was agreed I could go along. I was to pay my share of the trip expenses.

I was still waiting for some notice from U.S.C. and about a week later, on a Monday morning, I got a telegram from Jeff Cravath, the Head Coach of U.S.C. The telegram stated that if I came to U.S.C. I would be given a full scholarship and to come to his office on campus as soon as I arrived in Los Angeles. I was ready to jump through the ceiling. Damn, I was so happy I called Frank Hummell. We were going to leave later in the week. My folks were overjoyed, mostly because I was so enthused and going with older friends.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Redshirts by Rudy Bukich Copyright © 2011 by Rudy Bukich. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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