Camp and Circumstance
Jordan Mackay goes to Camp Cowboy.
(Page 4 of 8)
Practice
Walking up to the training fields at St. Edwards University the morning of the first day of practice, I felt like I was entering one of those model environmental cities of the future. Stationed at various checkpoints on the winding roads of the campus were yellow-shirted college students standing guard. Being on foot, I was unthreatening and they merely nodded to me as I passed. But they were stopping all cars and closely examining credentials.
Once inside the camp compound, I was struck by the sheer number of small, uncanopied golf carts zipping around. They added (along with the absence of litter and the ornate buildings) to the model environmental community ambiance. Later I would find that these carts, labeled Club Cars, were the standard means of conveyance for players and coaches, and that almost every official person was in possession of one. I was impressed by the clean, hive-like feel of the whole operation. As I mounted the final hill and the practice fields and crowds of fans became visible, I bolstered my superficial confidence and encountered the first press checkpoint. Expecting rigorous interrogation and prolonged examination of my credentials, I was pleased when they didn’t bat an eye and the long-legged, coed at the gate merely said, “They’re sending all the press to the other side this morning.”
At the other end of the field, about fifty yards away, players were lying on the ground in neat rows, being led in stretching by a battalion of coaches. The grass was short and green and impressively soft, like the grass that grows in the north, the antithesis of the spiny, piercing grass that favors Austin. As I approached, I could hear the coaches intoning commands like “keep the right leg back and twist back and to the left” to these very large men on the ground. And I joined the huge contingent of reporters on the south side of the field, doing my best to sink in and appear focused.
Soon the stretching ended and the offense and defense split up. I followed the majority of the press corps down to watch the offense begin their drills. The quarterbacks—there were four of them—began throwing to the receivers who were running twenty to thirty yard routes straight down the edge of the field. The discernible quiet in the air as these drills began surprised me, considering the numbers of press, fans, and coaches watching the proceedings. Everyone was slightly awed by the simple beauty of a football sailing through the air off the quarterback’s hand into the sprinting grasp of a sleek receiver. It was in these moments, watching the artful arcs the spiraling footballs made in the air, that I was reminded of the simple geometric grace of the game. No matter how much swaggering and wagering and trash talking one sees, there remains essential aesthetic appeal in every sport, and football’s was showcased in these simple passing drills. If you’ve ever tried to throw a football for distance, you would appreciate the apparent ease with which Troy Aikman sails the ball. Effortlessly he releases it, his mind instantaneously and automatically making the millions of vector calculations necessary to lay the ball softly into the hands of a streaking receiver thirty-five yards down field.
Soon the drills evolved and the receivers began running more varied routes—routes with fakes and quick cuts—routes that looked like they were designed to go long, but in which the receiver would suddenly cut inward and catch a fifteen-yard bullet. Then the plays changed again and a hyperactive coach, carrying around a large pad like an Arthurian knight carrying his shield, would station himself where the receiver caught the ball, every time, shouting, ” Contact! Contact!” jolting the receiver with the shield just as the player caught the ball. If the receiver dropped it he would shout, “Come on now!” as he ran off to slam the next guy.
Catching
“One on One” passing drills came next and this is where the action heated up. As usual, the quarterback would snap the ball, dropping back as a fleet-footed receiver sprints off the line of scrimmage. This time, however, there would be a cornerback poised and waiting ten yards off the line to vie for the ball on defense. One player would get his turn and then go to the end of the line until it became his turn again. The line of cornerbacks was just a few feet from the battalion of reporters and I monitored their reactions. For the first day of practice, the drills were tremendously competitive and the cornerback line was populated with lots of young players whose odds of making the final cut were clearly long. But they were giving it their all and would curse if the receivers beat them to the ball (which they did about 70% of the time). It is universally acknowledged that the corner’s job is one of the toughest and least desirable in football. After all, they are left out to guard the wide receiver on their own and at considerable disadvantage since the receiver and the quarterback have arranged what pattern will be run. If the receiver gets by the corner and catches the pass, the result for the defense can be disastrous and the poor cornerback often gets singled out for the blame.
Michael Irvin seemed to take special delight in these duels with the cornerbacks. Inevitably a cheer would arise from the crowd when it was Irvin’s turn and he seemed to thrive off the attention. Several times he completely lost the defender with a devastating fake and caught the ball to the ravenous approval of the crowd. A couple of times I saw Irvin get tangled with the defender and throw him to the ground. On one occasion he yelled “C’mon man, you’re taking it personally,” at an overzealous youngster who stormed off in a huff. Other times, Irvin playfully engaged the defender, good-naturedly taunting him and sharing a laugh.
Occasionally the coaches themselves could be entertaining too. There was one coach who’s job seemed to be exclusively to exhort and encourage the team. He was an older man and limped, dragging his leg behind him like hissing zombies do in the old matinees. When a player would make a good play as, for instance, when safety Darrin Woodson made an interception during drills, The Limp dragged himself all the way across the field shouting “Hey, Woody! Hey, Woody!” And when he finally reached Woodson he whispered something into his ear and turned him around to face the younger players, crying, “Y’all see that? That’s what I’m talking about!”
When the entire offense and defense got together to run plays, we could see Aikman, Irvin, and Emmit Smith working together, running play after play, drilling in the routines they’ve drilled in every season for the last five years. While it was fun to see all these guys perform, the repetition soon got old. And by the second practice I watched I must say I had very little interest in what was going on on the field. But, hey, this is not the official product, it’s not even rehearsal. The actors are still learning their lines. You can’t fault the team for being boring in practice. Just the shmoes (myself included) who come out to see them.
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