Just a week ago, we loaded onto the buses and headed to football
camp. I was sure I was going to kill one of these white boys. The way
they looked at me, like I was less than they were . . . The way they
treated us as we lined up to load the buses, I was looking forward to the
first days of live drills, looking forward to taking the head off of one of
those arrogant whities. I was all pro line backer last year in our all
black school, and I sure didn't feel like I had to prove myself again to
some dumb, third string scrub just because his skin was white, and mine was
But before we even got on the bus, Coach let us know that he wouldn't
tolerate the bigotry that was so much a part of southern life in the
1960's. He lined us up, and paired us off, black and white, big and small.
I was team captain last year, and when I started to protest, coach put me
next to the most cocky, ugly white boy I had ever met. I didn't what to
get to know' this whitie. I wanted my black team mates back, and an all
black team back. At least then I would know where I stood.
Practice for the first few days was the same as normal, drills in the
hot sun, puking on the sidelines when I didn't get enough water, and puking
when I drank too much. I was able to keep my guard up, for a while, until
the morning the wake up horn went off at 4:30, and coach told us to
assemble in the yard in our running clothes. I couldn't even see straight,
my body hurt, and my head wasn't awake when coach took off into the woods,
and shouted back over his shoulder that anyone who got lost could just find
their way to the highway and hitch a ride home. I wasn't about to give my
starting position to some white boy, so I took off after the crowd. I
fought the pain in my legs and the hatred in my heart toward the guys that
At one point, I tripped over a root, and landed face down in a pile of
...