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!”
