Sunday, August 12, 2018

Somebody Has to Run the Clock!


Growing up way down south in the land of cotton there were two   major sports:  football and spring football.  Oh, we played baseball and basketball, but they were just designed to keep us busy until the month of August when practice for the real game began!

        Every boy showed up for football practice, it didn’t matter if you could play football or not.  It was a rite of passage to go out for the team.  There was no shame in not making the team; the shame came if you didn’t try.  I probably should have been cut the first day.  I wasn’t very good.  I was small for my age and it’s a miracle I didn’t get crushed.  But my dad was always out at practice and kept asking the coach how I was doing.  All he had to do was open his eyes and he could see I wasn’t doing well, but every father thinks his son will be the star of the team.  I was hoping I would at least be good enough to play end—that is, the end of the bench.

        I made the Junior Varsity squad as a halfback.  The best play of my entire career came during a JV game when I ran about 20 yards around left end.  I’m pretty sure several of the defenders missed their assignments, but after I was tackled I will never forget my coach saying, “Good run, Howell.”  A Papal blessing would not have sounded any better that day!

        The next year I tried out for the Varsity team, but my coach had mercy on me so he asked me if I would like to run the scoreboard.  He figured there was no danger in my sitting in the press box pushing buttons.  I also got to do the PA occasionally, so I was as happy as I could be. 

        I didn’t run the game clock.  Only a certified, bona fide, card-carrying clock operator could be entrusted with that critical task.  Most of the clock operators were old referees who had been put out to pasture.  They couldn’t see or hear very well.  In one important game I kept telling the clock operator to start the clock or stop the clock.  I guess he was trying, although he didn’t seem to care.  When a few valuable seconds ran off toward the end of the first half with our team driving down the field, everyone in the stadium could hear our coach screaming.  At halftime he ran up the stands and bolted into the press box.  He gave us all a tongue lashing and right before he left he looked at me and said, “Howell, you can do better than this!”

        We lost a close game and I felt like it was my fault, even though I didn’t have anything to do with the clock.  My feeling was confirmed on Monday morning when coach called me out of class and sent me to the Principal’s office.  I thought it was about to be expelled from school and banished forever!

        I sat down in the Principal’s office and the coach handed me a standardized test.  The cover read:  Alabama High School Athletic Association Clock Operator’s Exam.  “Here, take this and you better do good,” coach said.

        I must have done good because on Thursday afternoon coach called me to his office and gave me a referee’s uniform.  I had become a certified, bona fide, card-carrying clock operator!

        On Friday night I walked with the referees to the middle of the field.  When our team captains came to midfield for the coin toss, I heard one of them say, “Look ole’ Howell’s a referee now!   We got this game!”

        For the next few years I ran the clock at every high school game.  We still lost some games, but the clock was never an issue again. 

        The old gospel song says, “If you cannot preach like Peter, if you cannot pray like Paul, you can tell the love of Jesus and say, “He died for all.”

        If you can’t quarterback like Cam Newton, if you can’t shoot like Chris Paul, maybe you can run the clock and be an important part of it all! 

        By the way, I still carefully watch the clock each and every Sunday!  If I go too long, I’m afraid my old coach will bolt into the church screaming, “Howell!  You can do better than this!”

                         

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