The strength of the team is each individual member. The strength of each member is the team.
~Phil Jackson
In the summer of 1974, I was a sophomore trying out for the high-school football team — standing five feet, four inches tall and weighing all of 110 pounds. This was at Logan Elm High School, a rural, single-A bastion of secondary education located 30 miles south of Columbus, Ohio.
That summer, the Logan Elm Braves had a new head football coach, Mr. Perry Griffith. He was a graduate of Worthington High School, a triple-A powerhouse located in a wealthy Columbus suburb. There, he had been a football star and state champion wrestler.
Now he had been tasked with turning country bumpkins into not only winners on the football field, but also winners in life.
The sports page of the local newspaper, the Circleville Herald, always printed when the first day of football practice would be held for the four high schools in the county. Logan Elm was to start on August 1st, which I learned by reading a tiny byline beneath a huge article about the Cincinnati Reds’ current home stand.
So, 60 kids showed up at 6:00 on the evening of Thursday, August 1st, not sure what to expect. To start, we were all herded to the 50-yard line and told to take a knee.
There, with the new assistant coaches standing in a row behind him, Mr. Griffith introduced himself. With the bill of a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, he glared at his young tutelages. The short sleeves of his polo shirt strained to contain his biceps, and the whistle around his neck hung in a valley between his pectorals. Sporting classic black polyester coaching shorts, white knee socks, and 1960s football cleats, he reminded me of Vince Lombardi.
With a clipboard in one hand and a stopwatch in the other, he stated that we were about to be timed in a one-mile run. That mile would consist of four laps around the school’s cinder track in shorts, shirt, socks, and football cleats.
I mumbled, “What?”
Was a timed mile Mr. Griffith’s way of taking stock of what he had to work with?
Then Mr. Griffith continued, explaining that we would be timed again on Friday the 9th. At that time, backs and ends would have to complete the mile in six minutes, and linemen would have to finish in six minutes, thirty seconds. Those who failed wouldn’t get their pads. It was that simple.
My eyebrows went up.
In my head, I called his policy “running for your pads.” Did other high-school football teams do that? Or was that just a big-city-like-Columbus thing?
But at the same time, I didn’t object to Mr. Griffith’s policy. Young, pubescent males needed to learn the valuable lesson of overcoming obstacles to achieve their goals.
“Okay, get up and follow me,” Mr. Griffith commanded. He spun about and began walking toward the Logan Elm sideline.
“GENTLEMEN, TONIGHT IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO EXCEL!”
In the gaggle that followed him, my head was spinning. Run a timed mile? Sheeesh! I guess that Mr. Griffith expected us to show up with at least a bare minimum level of physical fitness. And I would be okay. But there were boys who had held summer jobs while other boys worked on farms. They hadn’t been running. Some boys had gone on long vacations, and others had spent the summer with their girlfriends. They hadn’t been running either.
Meanwhile, I overheard older juniors and seniors grumbling that they didn’t like the policy.
“Man, we didn’t have to run for our pads last year.”
“Yeah, I liked it better under Coach Stant.”
“You don’t run a mile in a game, so why should you run a mile to get your pads?”
Mr. Griffith halted in the grass behind the Logan Elm bench. With the clipboard and stopwatch in hand, he jumped upon the bench to a more domineering position.
Then he dispatched his new assistant coaches to the four inside corners of the track — to simultaneously provide encouragement and prevent cutting corners.
Then 60 country bumpkins crowded the starting line on Logan Elm’s track.
From atop the bench, Mr. Griffith simply commanded, “ON YOUR MARK… GET SET… GO!” Tweeeeet!
Eight minutes later, my shins hurt from running in cleats on the track’s cinders. But that was small potatoes. I remember boys doubled over in pain and gasping for air. Some boys begged for water. Some puked on the track. Some boys even got in their cars and never returned.
The very next evening was our first real practice. However, before starting, we were all corralled together again, but this time it was at the 50-yard line of our parched practice field.
“Take a knee,” Mr. Griffith instructed again.
A smaller horde knelt down in front of their new head coach. The five-minute speech that followed would best be summarized with the following three sentences:
“Getting out of shape is a natural thing.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll get you where you need to be.”
Then Mr. Griffith called us all in to huddle around him, and he commanded, “READYYYYYY… BREAK! GENTLEMEN, TONIGHT IS ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY TO EXCEL!” Tweeeeet!
What followed that night and for the next week were basic conditioning drills like we had never seen. Even the “warm-ups” involved more running than the prior year’s entire daily practices.
Nine days later, there was an excitement in the air at practice. Forty aspiring football players — 20 had quit — didn’t have to be herded out to the track. Instead, we all walked there on our own… to Mr. Griffith’s surprise.
With clipboard and stopwatch in hand, Mr. Griffith returned to his perch atop the bench.
“GENTLEMEN, THIS EVENING IS ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY TO EXCEL!”
I merely nodded my head.
“BACKS AND ENDS TO THE STARTING LINE.” Tweeeeet!
About 15 boys crowded the track at the 50-yard line.
Mr. Griffith instructed, “Get off the track and run on the grass around the inside. That will prevent shin splints.”
My jaw dropped to the track. No complaints here!
And a hodgepodge of clothing and cleats instantly jumped over onto the grass.
Meanwhile, the linemen lined both sides of the track to root for their teammates.
From atop the bench, Mr. Griffith smiled — his first in nine days — and then commanded, “ON YOUR MARK… GET SET… GO!”
What a difference a week made. After completing the mile, instead of doubling over or begging for water or puking, each back or end stayed at the finish line to cheer for his teammates. When the last runner crossed the finish line, everyone celebrated.
Every back and end had finished in less than six minutes.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
“LINEMEN TO THE STARTING LINE.” Tweeeeet!
I inhaled and joined the gaggle on the track at the 50-yard line.
Then Mr. Griffith repeated, “It’s the same policy, gentlemen. Get off the track and run on the grass around the inside.”
Twenty-five linemen scrunched together on the grass at the bench.
“ON YOUR MARK… GET SET… GO!”
Wow! Running on grass made all the difference in the world. I crossed the finish line just as Coach Griffith yelled, “5:10!” Then I walked back over to the edge of the track to hail my fellow linemen who had yet to finish.
Enter a junior named Seth. He wasn’t a fat junior — he just had “big bones.” He would be the starting left offensive tackle… that is, if he could complete the mile under 6:30. And there he was, dead last on the other side of the playing field with an eighth of a mile to go. Seth was huffing and puffing, barely moving his tree-trunk legs.
Mr. Griffith began to yell the time: “5:40.”
And 39 country bumpkins began screaming, “GO, SETH, GO!”
“5:58.”
“YOU CAN DO IT, SETH!”
“6:12.”
“C’MON, SETH!”
The big boy crossed the finish line.
Mr. Griffith yelled, “6:27!”
“ALRIIIIIIGHT!”
“WAY TO GO, SETH!”
“NICE JOB!”
Seth doubled over with his hands on his knees.
Every lineman had finished under 6:30.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Mr. Griffith commanded, “CONGRATULATIONS, GENTLEMEN! READYYYYYY… BREAK!”
That was it for our mile test.
And Seth had learned a valuable lesson in life.
Come to think of it… so had I.
The next morning was equipment-issue day, when all of the football equipment was laid out on the basketball court. The line extended out the double doors and around the corner from the fastest senior to the slowest senior, the fastest junior to the slowest junior, the fastest sophomore to the slowest sophomore, and the fastest freshman to the slowest freshman.
Four hours later, the forty of us felt as if our pads had not just been handed to us — our pads had been earned.
That was a year of growth for the Logan Elm Braves, but we finished the 1975 fall campaign with an 8–2 record, as co-champions of the Mid-State League. Coach was right. Running helped.
— John M. Scanlan —