Art was the largest senior at the small rural high school; Coach often had trouble getting the required thirty boys out for football. Art played offensive tackle, 285 pounds of tough ranch-hand, Flames’ number 74. Colleges offered football scholarships; Art was leaning towards Idaho State.
Fiero Hill’s most popular student was Richard Rudner. Elected Class President and Junior Prom King, Rich was good looking with a devil-may-care manner, but stood only four-foot, three-inches and weighed just 85 pounds. Rich’s body couldn’t manufacture key hormones but, by taking HGH, he gained ten pounds and two inches over the last three years. When Rich went out for football, Coach ordered a special uniform and pads, paid for out of his own pocket.
It was too dangerous for Rich to play regularly; a falling player or aggressive tackle could put him in hospital for months. Coach let him play in practices and scrimmages where no-one tackled him. Scrimmagers held Rich up until Coach blew his whistle to end the play.
But when Coach dialed in his “74 Flow” play, Rich took the field in the tailback position, a miniature in the red and black Flames uniform. Everyone in the bleachers and along the sidelines began yelling Rich’s name. Even the opposing players, who knew exactly which play was coming, would shout encouragingly.
The quarterback, Phil Davis, ran a quick count and received the ball on the first “Hutt.” Dropping back, Phil handed the ball backwards to Rich, while the Flames’ linemen and half-back pulled out to the right, creating a wedge of heavy bodies. Art waited besides the quarterback and in front of Rich. After three “Mississippi’s,” Rich tucked the ball into the pouch in his jersey, ran forward and grabbed the reinforced collar of Art’s shoulder pads. Art took off down the field behind the blockers.
Linebackers and safeties bounced off Art as he trundled down the field with Rich hanging on behind. Art never went down; if he failed to score, he just allowed himself to be stood up by the tacklers until the Ref blew the play to a halt.
Usually, Art would lumber into the end zone, Rich still holding tight to his pads, the ball wedged between them.
“Touchdown, Flames,” the announcer yelled.
When Art got sick thirty years later, he warmly recalled his high school football games and “74 Flow.” Art never played college ball; economic conditions required working the family’s ranch.
When able to sleep, Art dreamt of crossing the goal-line with Rich hanging on his back, the ball poking between his shoulder blades. The good memories helped; those same shoulder blades had been reduced to small bony wings, following surgery to remove portions of his lungs to defeat the virulent cancer.