He started out as a Honey Creek Wildcat, playing at a small country school in the southeastern corner of Nebraska. It was in the mid-fifties and at the time, Honey Creek was a powerhouse in both basketball and football. They played in the Little Eight Conference, consisting of Honey Creek, Dawson, Salem, Verdon, Stella, Shubert, Rulo, and Bratton Union. He loved sports, and he excelled at them. As a whopping 160-pound end, he used his speed and toughness when playing football.
He played in a time when they were just implementing face masks. But like everything, there were setbacks before there were advancements. He refused to wear one again after doing so for the first time in a game. There were no face mask rules yet, those would come later. He said wearing it was like having a bucket handle attached to your head. Your opponent would grab it and steer you in whatever direction they wanted. His options, having your head almost ripped off or losing all your front teeth. He chose the latter. To say he was tough, even then, is an understatement, the word doesn’t do him justice. Although he never lost his teeth, he told of a teammate who did. As a runner he had broken free, only to step on the edge of what was the long jump pit and stumble forward. As he did his mouth met the knee of the oncoming tackler. Four teeth gone. For Dad, being in the middle of broken arms and legs, was common, yet he excelled at the game.
That toughness was something he taught me and my brother. My first lesson in getting tough came at a picnic with a couple of his buddies and their families. I was thirteen and had taken my football and as we were passing it around it was decided a pass and tag game would be played. One blocker, one rusher, a quarterback and everyone else receivers or defenders. Of course, I was the center and blocker. He was the rusher. We were playing Five-Mississippi, or five- Missisip. I snapped the ball, expecting him to make his count and then rush. He didn’t. As soon as I snapped the ball, I caught a forearm across the nose. I fell backward as he rushed past and after the quarterback. I got up, a small cut across the bridge of my nose, expecting an answer. He gave me one. “You want to play football. That’s football.” The next play I snapped the ball, ducked and side stepped him, tripping him with my foot as he went by. He did a bellyflop on the ground, his wind leaving his body. After getting up he called me ‘dirty’ and the game was on.
I experienced my next toughness lesson in Texas, where as a freshman I became a Lamesa Golden Tornado. The school was large enough to have a freshman team, a junior varsity team and a varsity team. It was the first game of the season, and we traveled approximately sixty miles to play Denver City. My parents took off work to go. I didn’t play a single down. Upon arriving home Dad met me at the door. “What the hell is going on. Why aren’t you playing?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I’ll tell you right now, I’m not taking off work and driving sixty miles to watch your ass stand on the sideline.”
“I know,” I said.
“Then get tough. Crack some heads, break some legs.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Break a leg every day in practice until there is nobody left for the coach to play but you.”
“Okay.”
Looking back, I know now he didn’t mean it literally, and I didn’t break any legs. But the point had been made.
Our game had been on Thursday because the varsity played on Friday night. We typically didn’t have practice the following day because the freshman coaches helped with the varsity squad. But after losing the first game of the season the coaches felt practice was needed. It started out as normal, stretching and warm-up drills. Then they called us together and told us they didn’t have enough players. Too many guys were going both ways. We were going to do nothing but hitting drills and find out who wanted to play ball, who were the hitters on this team. The drill of choice, Tornado Alley.
Tornado Alley consisted of two tackling dummies placed five yards apart with two defenders and two offensive players lining up facing each other between the dummies. A defensive lineman and linebacker versus an offensive lineman and running back. It was my day. I shed blocks and made some big hits. There was whooping, hollering and head slapping. I was on cloud nine, now a hitting junkie.
I started the next game at defensive tackle, and we won our next nine games. I started every game for the rest of my high school career. Of course, Dad was elated, telling all his friends all I needed was for him to coach me up, and show me how to get mean.
I think his greatest disappointment in me was my quitting football at West Texas State. It’s something I still regret. And at the time I quit, he said I always would. It took a while for him to get over it. I had sold him on playing football and he believed in me. But being lifelong Husker fans, we never stopped watching games together and talking football. Dad cheered for the KC Chiefs for as long as I can remember and that never changed. However, he also adopted the Steelers because of me and my brother. He liked how mean they were.
Dad passed this morning, one day short of his eighty-seventh birthday. He was the toughest man I have ever known, and that doesn’t begin to capture who he was. He may have been my first football coach and taught me about toughness and football, but he was more than that. He taught me right from wrong, about hard work and living life. He taught me the importance of family, how to love, and how to laugh. He was my Dad and I’ll miss him.
~Lyle Harmon
GO BIG RED!!
Photo courtesy of the Falls City Journal