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The rain poured non-stop. The football field was syrupy mud. This was some 46 years ago, over in Somerville, Maryland, the opposite side of the Washington area from Bethesda and Chevy Chase.
This was a junior varsity football game, St. John’s at McNamara, a middle-of-the-school-week mess bowl. I came to the line of scrimmage and got in my three-point stance on the left side in the tight end slot. Pretended I wasn’t part of the play, just a blocker, while knowing my play had been called: 921 Waggle. This was the moment to be clutch or look foolish and unathletic.
The ball got snapped, and I took two steps toward the middle linebacker to suck him in, along with the cornerback and safety, to get them all thinking it was a running play or, at least convince them the play did not involve me as a receiver.
Two strides into my deceptive move, I burst back through the secondary on a fly pattern toward the goal line down the left side of the field. The ball was coming my way. Our quarterback, Tony Hartman, did his job lofting the ball above the defender’s head and over my left shoulder. Hit me in stride.
As the rain kept coming and the sloshing through the mud made everything feel like a dark and dubious day to be doing anything outside, and thoughts of homework to do that night, I used my instincts for how to catch the ball and looked the ball into my hands.
Securing it, I turned towards the end zone some 25 yards away and ran ahead with no one in front of me.
Apparently, the linebackers and defensive backs got pulled towards the line of scrimmage figuring it was a run play or, if not, certainly not a pass to the tight end.
They bought my inside move before I blew past them outside.
A touchdown catch, and a touchdown pass, both of which got us the early first-half lead that we were able to hold for the rest of the game. I remember a long drive in the rain and mud late in the game and a one-yard plunge for a big score, and I had been blocking on those plays. It felt cool, being a part of a team, out-wanting the game from the opponent with sheer physical exertion, a bunch of guys bashing a bunch of other guys, in disgusting weather. High school football at its finest and most pure. No pretentiousness, just ramming into each other play after play. A fight on the football field.
I share this distant memory because the guy who threw that pass, Tony Hartman, called me yesterday on Christmas Eve to catch up. I was in upstate New York in the driveway of my daughter’s house. The call was unexpected and random which is so often how life is. Things happen we never could have foreseen. We run into someone we haven’t seen in thirty years. A person in our life, we find out, gets sick. So many events that have no real cohesiveness, seemingly, just event after event after event, keep happening.
The first thing I said when I realized it was him was “Remember that 921 Waggle touchdown play we connected on against McNamara?”
Of course, Tony remembered. Quarterbacks remember their touchdown passes. He told me I should have played football for two more years in high school because he and I would have connected on plenty more pass plays, which probably would have happened. He could throw, I could run and catch, and we would have been tough to deal with.
But this is not about regrets about what I didn’t do in my life. It’s about gratitude that I’m still in touch with Tony nearly five decades later. I feel like I know the guy well even though we’ve rarely seen each other as our lives took different paths.
Tony’s locker was next to mine for four years of high school because Hartman and Hartley are spelled nearly the same. Every day I would see him between classes. He would talk trash, be friendly because it’s his nature, and blow smoke about how great he was in hoops while at St. Bernadette’s in Silver Spring which never really resonated with me because every time my Little Flower football team played him we won by at least 25 points. Rudy will confirm this.
So Tony trash-talked but he knew I knew he wasn’t serious because how could he be? We both knew who won on the field of battle.
I appreciated Tony calling me on Christmas to check-in. He saw my blog in his text message I sent him and said to himself: “I gotta call Charlie.”
I thought about all that Tony and I had experienced, both good and bad, since high school. It would take a long time for us to unpack all that plus how it made us feel what wisdom we gained and how we view life differently and through new lenses. Tony doesn’t know this, but I have had a fair number of professional and health setbacks since our high school days. Things haven’t gone as planned quite often. On the other hand, there has been plenty of joy, exhilaration, and fulfillment with an all-time great wife and three kids I am amazed by every day.
Tony’s life may have gone a different way but may have been similar. We all run into roadblocks and times when we wonder why life is so hard.
But we keep going because that’s what people do. They move forward. They keep trying. They set new goals. They learn and adjust and refine and compete and love and feel pain and gain confidence.
Now and then, they call a high school friend several decades after they graduated together. These moments enrich our lives and make us feel it’s all worth enduring.
Tony Hartman has always been one of the good guys. As genuine as they come, a good sense of humor, a competitor, and a guy who has gone on to do great things with his life. I know this because a few years I visited him and it was great to see he had done so well and has a family. He’s got a creative side, too, which as a writer myself I admire. He does impressive artistic woodworking as a hobby.
I am glad I know Tony Hartman and still keep in touch with him. Forever he is my friend. Forever we hooked up on the 921 Waggle.
That remains a special memory that binds us today and always.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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