Guest Posts on County 10 are provided by contributors and the opinions, thoughts, and comments within are their own and may not necessarily reflect those of County 10.
It was a hot Monday morning in the second week of August. I was coaching my first football practice. It was my first interaction as a “real” coach with about 15 boys from Niobrara County.
The sun was blazing, even at 7 a.m. Remembering a bit of the “touchy-feely” the University of Wyoming College of Education had pounded into me, I didn’t hear it much as a history major, but it permeated the education classes I needed for a teaching certificate. I decided to use one of the motivational techniques.
I put the boys through high-step drills on the ropes, then ran them through a set of “old-school” tires with the usual results of a few face plants. We hit the sled, did a few monkey rolls and dozens of short sprints. I promised them a water break if they gave 100 percent on the drills. They did.
As head coach Jerry Fullmer blew his whistle to bring the backs, receivers, and linemen together, I told the team manager to give the guys the two six-packs of pint-sized water bottles. A couple of the linemen got a swig before Fullmer came running over.
“What are you doing?” he yelled at me.
He proceeded to pour all the water on the ground.
“We don’t drink water at practice,” he said.
Lesson learned.
When I watched the football classic “Remember the Titans,” that moment came back to life.
Defensive tackle Blue Stanton had this memorable exchange with head coach Herman Boone.
“Coach we need a water break, we been out here all day,” Blue says.
“What did you say?” Boone replies.
“Said, we need a water break,” Blue says.
“A water break? Water is for cowards. Water makes you weak. Water is for washing blood off that uniform and you don’t get no blood on my uniform, boy you must be outside your mind! We are going to do up-downs, until Blue is no longer tired, and thirsty,” Boone concludes.
It took me back even further in time.
We didn’t get much water at Wind River in the 1970s. We were too busy running hills, doing endless barrel rolls and sprinting ourselves into oblivion. In between, we practiced a play or two, but if anyone screwed up, we all headed up to the steep hill behind the high school for a few punishment sprints up the hill.
In my senior year, they softened a little bit.
One night, the whistle blew for a break, and there were three plastic gallon jars next to the blocking sled.
Water? It seemed a bit surreal.
The jars still had the dill pickle labels on them. The coaches had picked them up from our cooks Fern and Rosie.
It was the nectar of the gods. We didn’t even mind the half-dozen salt pills partially dissolved at the bottom of each jar. It was a treat, filled from a garden hose off the back of the gym by one of the managers.
Imagine that today. How many lawsuits? How many special board meetings? How many news crews dropping in on practice? How many counselors would be brought in to console the boys?
We live in different times.
Yes, water is important. Once I left Lusk, we always had water at breaks in my years coaching football in Riverton and Shoshoni.
The jugs gradually evolved into increasingly elaborate systems of individual water hoses, modified sprinklers, and individually named water bottles.
A kinder, gentler age?
We’re bombarded with the message of “stay hydrated.” I remember when it hit the in-service bandwagon back in the late 80s. Concerned, highly paid Friday afternoon “experts” trotted out data indicating a hydrated mind was better able to learn, to interact, to behave.
Nope. Very few of us bought into the hype. Yes, kids needed a drink now and then, but suddenly every kid was packing water like they were about to walk across Death Valley.
The trend is alive and well today. You see it often. Some individuals can only work with one hand since they’re carrying water full-time with the other.
As a teacher and coach, I augmented my income each summer roofing houses, pouring concrete, building sheds, houses, and barns. Yep, water was important.
We weren’t too sophisticated. We had just gallon milk jugs, washed out and filled the night before work, then set in the freezer.
They were rock hard at 6 a.m. when we set out. We left them in the sun next to the job site. By the 10 o’clock break, there was maybe a cup of water surrounding the ice. It was just enough.
By noon, the thawing speed increased. It was about half and half.
The blazing afternoons had us taking the jugs on the roof. By about 4, we drank the last of the jug. An hour later, we were on the way home. Occasionally, we stopped for a cerveza or two at an establishment along the route back home.
One night, we played at Basin with a 7 p.m. kickoff. They fed us at the Washakie Grill in Worland on the way home.
In the Wind River Canyon, we heard a loud thump and our driver, the legendary Walt Westling, began yelling (Walt was good at yelling) as he struggled to keep the bus on the road.
A blowout on the right front.
The lug nuts were so tight that no one could break them loose. An oilfield truck stopped and gave us a cheater pipe. With Walt holding the lug wrench and two of us bouncing on the end of the pipe, we were able to break them loose.
The spare was flat.
Another car stopped and took Walt and the spare back to Thermopolis. It was now 2 a.m. We were thirsty, especially Dick Tizump, Cubby Furlong and me, after we’d eaten about a pound of Dick’s grandma’s elk jerky.
We decided to get a drink out of the Big Horn River rushing by below us.
How we didn’t get Giardia or something worse… I’ll call divine providence. None of us got sick from the waters rushing north toward Montana.
Walt put the spare back on and we were back at Morton around 5 a.m. with a crowd of cars waiting for us. Anxious parents. (Cell phones were a generation away.)
Drop by a football practice this fall and you’ll no doubt see water everywhere. It’s a different time and place.