The FBU National Championship, Part 3: The Dog Catches the Car

After Southeast Louisiana we were ready to hang points on the board. So we did. Final score Northwest Louisiana 38, Arkansas 0. They were good sized kids but couldn’t match our speed and everything they did we had an answer for. PJ caught four scores. Slade was a magician running the option, sucking the linebackers up with play action then going over the top. The defense pitched another shutout and we just physically wore them down. It wasn’t Arkansas’ fault. Some days you just play a team that is flat out better and no amount of coaching or adjustments or half time pep talks will change that fact.

This was the game where heads began to turn, when we began to earn the reputation as a brutal, physical, outwork you until you quit team. Later on, when each of the Final Four teams had a highlight video made by FBU, the other teams had plenty of long runs, athletic catches, and timely interceptions. Our film looked like closed circuit TV footage of a bar fight.

Mike the HC gathered us around to explain what was about to happen. The next step in FBU’s “Road To the Dome” was in Kansas City, Missouri. Nine hours and 540 miles away. Our first game was Saturday morning. And it was Sunday. The longer Mike talked to the players and their parents the more the realization of what was about to happen showed on his face.

You have to get 32 players to the middle of the country. You have no budget. Most of your players’ parents can’t skip work on such short notice so there will be little adult supervision and support. You have to drive because it’s too expensive to fly. Ditto for renting a bus so that means the team will arrive in pieces in whatever transportation you can arrange. Half or your coaching staff will not be available because of prior commitments.

You have six days to solve all of these problems. Go.

Mike was the HC for a reason. I would have tried to pile 32 kids in my wife’s Saturn SUV and thought about food, lodging and bathrooms when our hypoglycemic players started losing consciousness amongst piles of their own excrement. Mike had a better idea- he started working the phones. Sal offered to drive his RV with Joe the OC and eight players (this was before Sal was “Sal.”) A player’s grandfather donated enough cash for Mike to rent a passenger van and carry another dozen players along with his wife Laurie who I am pretty sure gets her own condo in Heaven for putting up with twelve middle school boys for eighteen plus hours- not including pregame, postgame, and hotel hallway duty. The West Monroe parents, those who had bosses, told them that they were in a national championship football tournament and got whatever time off they needed. If there is Heaven on Earth for football I’m pretty sure it’s in West Monroe, Louisiana.

I rented a minivan, loaded three players, my wife, two coolers and enough caffeine to keep Lindbergh awake across the Atlantic and headed north.

Two rules for traveling with a team, doesn’t matter the sport. One, a hotel has to have a breakfast. Two, it has to have a pool. I was met at the reception area by a dozen or so soaking wet players and as I checked in I noticed the coffee and juice machines indicating a free continental breakfast. The hotel even gave us our own wing. They must have been the parents of teenage boys too. Good job, Mike.

Missouri in December is cold. Not Canada or Siberia cold but for a bunch of people that usually show for Christmas dinner dressed in shorts it might as well have been the surface of the moon. Our first opponent, Wichita, lived in the stuff year round so the home field advantage was definitely their’s. What made me even colder was the absence of game film. We had no clue about Wichita’s personnel, tendencies or even their base offense or defense. You know the feeling you get when you wake up in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar place and you need to use the bathroom but you don’t know where it is? I kind of felt like that.

It didn’t help when Wichita came out and ran the ball down our throats and scored first. Double freaking wing. Got some undersized kids that are smart and disciplined? Run the double wing. It gives defensive coordinators irritable bowel syndrome. Unless a defensive coordinator happened to coach the double wing for five years, which I had. Felt like the briar patch was calling me home. We gathered the defense around after the first series.

Me: “Wherever the fullback goes, tackle him. Then everybody behind the fullback, tackle them. Questions?”

I’m no defensive guru. Can barely count to 11 and figure out the strong side from the weak. But if you just tackle the fullback in the double wing then the backfield suddenly looks like the parking lot at Disneyworld on Fourth of July weekend.

Northwest Louisiana 34, Wichita 6. But Dallas was up next. Fast, athletic. And with a few million people in the Metro Plex we were certain they had more than a few game breakers on the squad. I figured we had topped out.

As usual, I was wrong.

The FBU National Championship, Part 1: Armageddon

Let me preface by saying I’m not completely certain what Armageddon will look like. I’m sure there will be weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. I’m fairly certain that the weather will suck, the food will be less than palatable, and a lot of my friends will be there. My FBU National Championship experience was all of that, as well as a few things that not even our Creator could have envisioned for the end of the world. Eighteen teams of teenage football players running around San Antonio Texas, sleeping four to a room, frequently crossing paths with their opponents, and all with a minimal amount of adult supervision lends itself to the more terrifying aspects of Revelations.

I had the time of my life.

Football University, or FBU, conducts camps all over the United States for football players ages 12-18. They also sponsor the showcase event for high school seniors, The Army All-American Bowl, played in San Antonio, Texas. Over the years FBU has added events to the weekend of the Army All-American Bowl, including United States All-Star teams playing other countries, 7th and 8th grade East-West All-Star games, and, beginning in 2011, the FBU National Championship “Road to the Dome.” Sixty four teams from all over the country in a March Madness style tournament.

That’s where I come in.

I have coached my son’s football teams since he was five (he’s thirteen now.) My hometown (Shreveport, LA) is small enough so that the youth football coaches in the area know each other pretty well (familiarity breeds contempt.) When it was decided to put together a team to represent Northwest Louisiana my incredible pedigree and stature in the profession naturally made me a candidate to fill the final remaining position on the coaching staff. That and the fact that all the really good coaches had already said no, and all the average coaches were avid hunters and didn’t want football to cut into their time in the woods, and all the suck coaches were too lazy to answer the phone. I am not lazy. This is how I found myself on a practice field just before Thanksgiving surrounded by the greatest collection of 13 and 14 year old football talent in the northern half of Louisiana.

As any youth coach in any sport will tell you it is practically impossible to field a team of real deal, no bull, run through a wall, kill or die trying kind of players. Pick up a roster of 30 kids, weed out the clover pickers, the momma’s boys, the ones with daddies shoving them out of the car for practice, and the ones that have the desire but fall over for no apparent reason due to a lack of inner ear balance and you are left with five, maybe six kids that will be playing football on Friday nights in the coming years. Out of those five or six you may have one, and usually none, that have the potential to play ball in college.

This team would not have that problem.

Ten minutes into our first practice and I’m thinking, Holy crap. There isn’t a hole on this team that needs filling. These guys even warmed up like it was game time. Our first “light contact” scrimmage at the end of practice looked like the Coliseum scene in Gladiator. I walked up to our head coach and our OC. They were pie eyed. So was I. Everyone was trying to sort out who the gamers were so nobody was backing down an inch.

Mike the HC: “Maybe we should slow it down a bit. Before somebody gets, like, injured or something.”
Me: “Injured? We keep this up we’re gonna need six pallbearers and a backhoe.”

I walk over to the defense side and give our all-world strong (SAM) linebacker the good news. J.B. is what linebackers look like in movies. Blonde. Fast. Tall. Built like Urlacher. Mean like Nitschke.

Me: “J.B., we gotta slow it down. Somebody’s gonna get dead. No more tackling to the ground.”
J.B.: “Coach, we haven’t been tackling to the ground. We hit ‘em and they just kinda fall over.”

Can’t accuse the kid of being dumb. The 14 year old made a 27 on his ACT. Go ahead, read that again.

Things settled in after that. The boys started to realize that what was on the helmet was less important than what was in the heart. The kids from the two bitter rival private schools exchanged props. The private school kids watched the magnet school kids and saw that being smart doesn’t mean you can’t ball. And everybody was growing to love the country cousins from the east that were all day nasty but all about team.

Life lessons more important than any football game.

If we, a bunch of Louisiana boys, nobodies from nowhere, look like this, what will the big dogs look like? Texas, California, Florida? How much bigger, faster, stronger is it possible for a kid to get?

According to the bracket we wouldn’t see those teams until at least the third round. If we made it that far. Southeast Louisiana and Arkansas stood in the way.

We didn’t know it yet, but the journey that started on that practice field in November wouldn’t end until January, at the FBU National Championship in San Antonio.

Next up: Part 2, The Dog Catches The Car

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