Prep coach was right: we made wonderful memories

Sporting News, The, Jan 20, 1997 by Michael W. Ranville

With big-money, high-profile pro athletes gearing up for the show-stopping Super Bowl, a Michigan man recalls what a low-profile high school football career and a coach whose guidance he revered still mean to him nearly 40 years later.

The call, from an old friend, was totally void of any perfunctory amenities: "Coach died yesterday." There was no doubt who "coach" was--it was Archie Ellerthorpe, our high school football coach at St. Agnes in Flint I shouldn't have taken it so hard. I hadn't seen the coach in nearly 30 years. A nondescript lineman, I doubt he even remembered my name Rut Archie Ellerthorpe WAR the closest thing to invincibility we had encountered in our brief lives. Now he was dead.

There are those of us who never were blessed with the size or ability to grace the professional playing fields of America. Today, we staff the production lines of our automobile plants, make the pizzas that are delivered in 30 minutes, sit in the boardrooms of our nation's corporations--and a thousand other professions. We're the offensive line-men of our economy. And although our days in the arena were not as many, our memories

Playing four years, I got to hear coach Ellerthorpe's "make a memory" speech a number of times. It never got old. "You don't know it now," he'd say, "but the time spent here is going to give you some great memories. And take my word for it, men, the older you get the more you're going to need a good memory every now and then." He always called us "men."

The speech came to life for me on the day we traveled north to Bay City, for a game with always-tough St. Stanislaus. With the score tied, 7-7, we were in the middle of what would turn out to be the game-winning drive. Although only a sophomore, I was getting some playing time at center.

Early in the game, I had discovered an ability to screen the man over me. At 5-8 and 160 pounds, I would never know the joy of manhandling an opponent, a "pancake" as it's known today. But for a moment, albeit a brief one, and with proper position, I could create a hole if we needed the yardage. Thrilled at the prospect of making a contribution, I sidled up to my quarterback, Gary Jacobs, and confided, "Jake, if you need a few yards, I can handle my man."

With third and long and the clock winding down, we called a timeout. Still amazed that I was on the field with the game on the line, I was basking in an aura of heretofore unknown teammate camaraderie. "Big holes, Mikey, get mean," exhorted fullback Bill Arnold, just about the most popular guy in the whole school. Get mean? I had all I could do just to keep from grinning.

Jake returned to the huddle. "Coach says they're expectin' a pass," he said, "so we're gonna spread everyone out and then run the fullback draw." Then he whispered to me, "OK, Mike, you got yer chance." Uh-oh. He had told Mr. Ellerthorpe I could handle my man, information that had divined the strategy. Everyone was counting on me.

Arriving at the line of scrimmage, I went numb. The guy I assured everyone I could handle wasn't there. In his place was some gorilla last seen playing over our resident enforcer, Rich Petrowski. To make matters worse, the gorilla was a talker, an intimidator, someone who tells you what he's going to do to you before he does it.

"Oh maaann, am I'm gonna hurt you," my psychotic opponent sneered as I positioned myself over the ball. Then he growled, actually growled, just like an animal.

By my senior year, I was to become an accomplished chipper, a bench jockey a true and able practitioner of the cocky one-liner. But on this day. all I could do was summon an untapped source of resolve, look that gorilla in the eye and say as forcefully as my cracking voice would allow, "Kiss my butt." Not all that profound, and pretty adult fare for a sophomore at a Catholic school, but at least I meant it.

There are certain events in life that must have occurred in slow motion, because when beckoned from the bank of personal memories that's the way they're recalled. My confrontation with the gorilla is one such incident.

I snapped the ball. With strength I didn't know I possessed, my arms came up, caught him in the chest just below his shoulder pads and knocked him off his feet into a pile two positions down. My surprise, I guarantee, was as great as his.

Gorilla disposed of, the world returned to regular speed as Bill Arnold and his familiar number 41 ambled by, deftly cut to the right and chalked up a 15- yard gain.

Just before entering the huddle, Bill said in front of the entire team, "Great hole, Mike." I could feel a number of pats on my helmet and pads. Life would have to go some to get better than this.

A few plays later, we scored. On the sideline, I was down on one knee watching the extra point when Coach came over and, with his back to the field, squatted next to me like a baseball catcher. "Hell of a hole, Mike," he said. That was all, just "hell of a hole, Mike." He noticed. He knew. That moment is seared so deeply in my mind that I can say with certainty that Archie Ellerthorpe was chewing Juicy Fruit on the day St. Agnes beat St. Stan's, 14-7.