Hurdling the Wedge.

Smith, Ron

Hurdling the Wedge

   "Failure is the true test of greatness."
   -Herman Melville

     Did I tell you about the time
   I tried to hurdle the wedge at VMI?
   (Right, the wedge was legal back in those days
   when helmet-to-helmet was simply a good hit
     and spearing was de rigueur.)

   Wedge-buster that I was,
   I'd come down on the first kickoff to see what
   looked like midgets--can you say midgets
   any more?--well, midgets shoulder to shoulder
   in that running crouch. Napalm and cluster bombs
   had scared most students away from the
   military schools. (Yes, players were actually
     students in those days.)

     After I had scattered them like duckpins
   and missed the tackle, I decided to do something so
   outrageous none of my buddies or coaches
   would ever forget it. Next kickoff, came flying down,
   faked a low dive at the point man's ankles, and threw
     my left leg straight over the guy's off shoulder,

     praying for a perfect hurdler's clearance.
   Lord, wouldn't that've been something? Can't you see
   the runner's eyes as I appear like whispering death
   before him, a missile promising blank oblivion, hero
   of a hundred film-session run-backs, the biggest
     hit, by God, in the history

     of kick coverage? Recently, while
   getting my exercise with Wii bowling, I flashed back
   to that moment, to that sweet anticipation, visualization
   of the nearly supernatural. Oh, how I loved winging
   down the field to the splendid explosion! Every time--
   the raptor's rapture, an F4 Phantom's high-G thrill,
     closest I ever got to combat elation.

     What happened? Military midget
   leaned down for the low shot, I got my leg just where
   I wanted it--and then he did what I would have done,
   arched his back and shot me high into the air. Went
   up about twelve feet, felt like twenty. I reached
     for the runner as he went by

     far below. By the time I touched down
   nobody was there. At the Sunday meeting, in the dark,
   there were a couple of gasps. Then a gaggle of guffaws.
   Coach Haupt said, "Smitty, I didn't know you could fly."
     (He did, though. And so did I.)