Football & Frito Pies

The air was hot, full of humidity, and as most people in South Louisiana would say, “downright muggy.” My dad and I walked along the asphalt track that circled the football field of the Morgan City High School football stadium, both of us taking in the view of the three teams warming up and going through their pregame drills. Patterson High School football officially began with the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival Jamboree, the event that my dad and I found ourselves attending, along with thousands of fans from all three area high schools. This annual event held over the Labor Day weekend in Morgan City, featured a Friday night football game where Patterson, Berwick, and Morgan City high schools would square off for a short game against one another.  Each school would play one quarter of football against each other and although this was merely a warm up session for the rest of the season, annual bragging rights were guaranteed when your school beat one or both of the other schools.

Unofficially, it was football season when the October days became cooler and I could sit in the raggedy stands in the old Patterson stadium, eating freshly roasted peanuts that my dad had brought to the game and smell the lingering effects of a sugar cane field that had recently been burned during the annual harvest of the crop. Before the game, an invocation was offered—usually by my dad or one of the other local pastors or priests—and the band would play the National Anthem.  Everyone in the stands would settle down I would place my right hand over my heart, singing along to our country’s anthem.

The biggest thrill occurred on nights when my dad would give the invocation and let me go with him into the press box. Slowly, just ahead of my dad, I would climb the old narrow stairs that led to the command center of Friday night football in Patterson.  I felt like I was miles above the earth when in fact I was probably no more than 2 or 3 stories above the ground. Still, my heart would pound as I gently took one wooden step at a time, holding carefully to the iron railings that followed the steps to the top.

Inside the press box sitting in rickety metal folding chairs would be coaches, newspaper reporters, sometimes a radio announcer, and of course, the man behind the silver microphone calling the game for the fans. His booming voice echoed through speakers that haphazardly hung from the same creosote-soaked poles that held the huge lights that illuminated the football field.

“Let us pray,” Dad would say, and a hush would descend upon the field and in the bleachers.  Most heads reverently bowed as he asked God for good sportsmanship, safety for the players, and as he concluded his Friday night prayer, he thanked God for the blessings He had given all of us, young and old, player and spectator. My heart was in prayer but my eyes took in the people, the field, the yard lines made from powdered chalk, the goal posts…everything that was illuminated by the glow of the stadium lights. Dad’s prayer would end too quickly for a kid of 8 or 9 who wanted to remain in the press box for the entire game. As soon as dad said his amen we both would descend those same old steps and head back to our place on the wooden bleachers.

Our country’s national anthem would be played by the Patterson High School band and after a loud cheer from the fans, players would find their places on the field for the opening kickoff. Cheerleaders stood on the sidelines with their backs to the players and with bright pom-poms lifted in the air shedding thin strips of paper to the ground below they would call for the fans to cheer on their hometown Lumberjacks. I stood between my dad and my mom looking at the backs of the people in front of me until my dad would tell me to stand on the seat so I could see above or between the people in front of us. Our team’s kicker would run toward a lopsided pigskin and with his right foot, connect with the ball sending it end over end to the opposing team.

“Did we make a homerun, a basket or was it a touchdown?” She didn’t know the difference nor did she care. She was happy sharing the moment with family and friends.

Without fail, my dad would be wearing black slacks and a bright red long sleeved dress shirt, matching the colors on our team’s uniforms. My mom would be wearing whatever was comfortable but it didn’t really matter as she would be covered with yards of yarn as she patiently and methodically crocheted her latest afghan. Daddy loved going to those Friday night football games to fellowship with the people around him, support the team, eat roasted peanuts and if a good game took place, the night was a complete success. Momma went to be with my dad, to talk to some of the other women in the stands, and to crochet. From time to time when the fans would cheer after a good run, completed pass, or perhaps a touchdown, Mom would try to be a part of the action by asking something like, “Did we make a homerun, a basket or was it a touchdown?” She didn’t know the difference nor did she care. She was happy sharing the moment with family and friends.

My sister, Sally, played in the band until her graduation in 1972. This would keep Mom’s attention at least through the halftime performance of the band.  After that, Mom might stick around for the rest of the game or more often than not, would ask Dad for the car keys and head home in our old blue Chevrolet Impala, leaving Daddy and I to walk home after the game. I managed to stay in the stands with the adults for about ten minutes before I dropped to the ground below and was scampering under the bleachers searching for my friends so we could run wild and free around the track that circled the outside of the bleachers. We felt safe, alive, and energetic under the edge of those lights.

Ned Stephens was a classmate of my sister, belonged to First Baptist Church of Patterson where my dad was the pastor and was on the football team. One Sunday after church, Ned asked if I wanted to round up some of my friends and meet him at the football stadium later that afternoon as he was going to the field to practice his punting. I was thrilled to be asked to go and shag footballs but for some reason, I couldn’t find anyone from the neighborhood.  So I rode my bike to the school and went about trying to catch Ned’s punts and get them back to him so he could continue practicing. It was quite a work out for a tiny elementary school kid but my heart was beating with excitement knowing I was running up and down the high school football field retrieving punts for a high school punter.

Personally knowing players on the team like Ned Stephens always made the games come alive and I felt connected to not only the players but to the game itself. When the Lumberjacks scored a touchdown, the fans would be excited about the team making six points but for us boys, we were excited because we knew the cheerleaders would be throwing souvenir mini footballs to the fans in the stands to celebrate the touchdown. We would stand at the ready under the bleachers hoping to see one drop below when someone above couldn’t hang on to the toss from a cheerleader. Our night was made if we caught or found one of those red or white plastic footballs that would be printed with an advertisement from a local business like Vinning Lumber or Frank’s Insurance Agency. Catching one of these mini footballs meant a game of football with other kids in the grassy, open space between the football field and the long wooden building that served as the team’s locker room. If we were not lucky enough to catch a souvenir football, we would always make due with a homemade football made from the waxed Coca-Cola cups we collected from the ground below the bleachers. Smashing one of the cups and rolling it into a ball as much as possible, we would stuff that cup into another cup and complete those steps several times until we would cap off both ends of those stuffed cups with two more waxed cups. Our football wasn’t pretty but it served its purpose and made for great games for a ragged group of sweaty boys just happy to be playing late into a Friday night.

Soon we would be thirsty and hungry, so we would head back in the stands to beg our parents for some money to buy something from the concession stand. At the old PHS stadium, the concession stand was a small square building that sat all alone, close to the black top where the school buses loaded up students during the school week. Set close to where you entered the stadium area, the concession stand had four large wooden windows that opened up above counters where you placed your order. It was always a treat to be able to buy something from the band or football boosters who sold the popcorn, Cokes, hot chocolate, pickles, hot dogs, and of course Frito pies, which are my all-time favorite snack at high school games. For those unfortunate souls who have not had the pleasure of enjoying such treats, a Frito pie is simply a bag of Fritos that is turned on its side, cut open with a pair of scissors, and then hot, delicious, homemade chili is poured over the chips. Sometimes shredded cheddar cheese was available and I would add it to my bag of warm goodness. With a plastic spoon and a napkin, I would walk away from the concession stand eating out of the bag, often devouring the contents before I made it back to the bleachers.

Around 3^rd grade, Tillman Simmons was a new kid in my class; he and his family moved to Patterson where his dad took a position as one of the high school football coaches and an American history teacher. Tillman and I would hang around together at the games. We would play football with the other boys, crawl under the bleachers looking for those little footballs, and more often than not, would end up running around the track hoping to run into Crystal Vinning or Angel Guzzino. Once we spotted Crystal and Angel, we would play chase and sometimes stop long enough to grab a Coke from the concession stand and talk about school, homework, and other things until the girls grew bored of us and went on their way. Tillman and I would then go back to what elementary school boys do best: getting sweaty and dirty, asking for more money from our parents, playing football, and by the end of the night, stinking like a wet dog.

Another high school football coach’s son, Steve Thompson, was in my Cub Scout den and because Coach Thompson had to spend a lot of time at the high school, Steve and I would go there as well and often found ourselves throwing passes to one another on the football field after the team practiced. One day, while we were in the old locker room, Coach Thompson and some of the other coaches were throwing out some old equipment because the team was getting new uniforms and some more updated pads and helmets. I came across one of the football helmets that was painted black and had a red P on the side with a white facemask. Coach Thompson saw me holding it and told me to take it if I wanted it. I was happier than our entire football team would be on a Friday night when they beat Berwick High School. When the other kids from my neighborhood and I played football in my front yard with our rag tag uniforms and pads, I always proudly wore that old Patterson High School football helmet.

Tillman and I would then go back to what elementary school boys do best: getting sweaty and dirty, asking for more money from our parents, playing football, and by the end of the night, stinking like a wet dog.

On those cool Fall nights at the stadium when the high school gridiron heroes of my childhood played their hearts out, win or lose, I was alive with energy and excitement. There was no other place I wanted to be than at those high school football games. Late into the evening as the game would come to an end, I would leave my friends and go and look for my dad. He of course wasn’t difficult to find as his bright red shirt could be spotted across the field. My dad loved to linger and just greet and talk to people. My dad loved people and people loved him. His genuinely warm heart and outgoing personality made it easy for him to connect with people. I would often find him laughing, telling jokes with Zane Fehrmann, Robert Shivers, Mayor Fred Allen Mensman, T-Boy or Manuel Listi, the brothers who owned Listi’s Meat Market, Mr. McMurray, the school principal, and lots of other adults from Patterson.

Daddy would grab his Patterson Lumberjack seat cushion, whatever was left of his bag of roasted peanuts, and my hand as we would leave the school and walk together down Church Street toward our home on Rosemary Street. With the glow of the stadium lights behind us, together we walked and talked about the game, what mischief I was involved in during the game, and what plans we might have for the next day. It’s a known fact that the during this period of my life, my beloved Patterson Lumberjacks were pretty awful and generally lost more games than they won. On those rare Friday nights when the ‘Jacks would win, we would talk about how they had won the game and how I was lucky enough to catch a little plastic football thrown by one of the high school cheerleaders.

It’s amazing that over 40 years later, my memories of events, people, particular games, sights and smells are so clear and vivid in my mind. I still fondly reminisce about those Friday nights. I still smile when I think about those happy times. At the same time, I recall events from decades earlier that still make me sad, still can bring tears to my eyes.

I find my eyes swelling up when I think about a particular young man who also went to church with us at First Baptist Church of Patterson. I idolized this member of the team more than any other player. His name was Johnny Kuhlman and he played quarterback. He was athletic, kind, friendly, and even though I was just a squirrelly kid 10 years younger than him, he always said hello to me, asked me how I was doing, and talked to me at church when I asked him about the previous week’s game. Tommy Johnson, the resident photographer for almost all events in Patterson, especially sporting events and any of the activities related to our church, had taken Johnny’s picture his senior year and I remember someone had pinned it up on the bulletin board at church. I would walk by that picture and remember wanting to be a quarterback like Johnny Kuhlman. Of course my desire and my body were never on the same page…I was never big enough to play high school football. I, like hundreds of other people were devastated and heart broken when Johnny, while working offshore the summer after graduating high school, was involved in an accident and was killed on a drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico. Even after all this time, Johnny’s memory still pops into my head from time to time.

It’s now October and I’m 900 miles away from Patterson and Lumberjack football. During football season, I sometimes listen to WWL, the Big 870 AM radio station that beams its signal to Kansas and beyond and I wait for the football update to hear if the Lumberjacks won their Friday night football game. In my mind’s eye I can see my dad dressed in red and black, standing up in the bleachers holding his paper bag full of roasted peanuts, my mom by his side, and a much younger Steve Achord, all smiles and proudly holding on to a tiny red and white plastic football and a warm Fritos Pie.