by Christopher Hivner

This year was different. We were playing Huntingdon, and we could beat them, and we did, 21-13. The celebration went on into the night. Couples danced into the streets, car horns honked "We are the Champions," the mayor declared us city heroes and proclaimed September tenth Dairymen Day! (Okay, by "into the night" I mean "eleven," when our parents made us come home, but I did get to dance with someone's mom. The mayor declared us to be "too loud" and told us to get off of his lawn, but he had already declared September tenth Dairymen Day, celebrating all the town's dairy farmers.)

But it was a big deal, and around school we were heroes. I've never been clapped on the back by so many teachers or been flirted with by so many girls. Coach Stark knew how big it was as well. When we got to practice Monday afternoon, he had a surprise for us. We lined up shoulder to shoulder like soldiers on review. One at a time he shook our hands, told us how proud he was, and presented us with a ring.

In the NFL, it is the goal of every player to win the Super Bowl, the championship game at the end of the season. You have to earn your way in and play your guts out in the game, but if, by any combination of talent, determination and luck, you win it, you get a huge bejeweled ring. No matter what else you do in life, no one can take that ring away from you once you have it. Coach Stark played only sparingly for three years, and no one but his family and friends remember he played, but he had a ring. A big, beautiful, dazzling, gaudy, jewel-encrusted man-sized ring.

We got adjustable copper colored ones with the tensile strength of aluminum foil, but we wore them like they were Polaris, shining beacons for lost travelers. This was why we loved Coach Stark. He understood. I was now 1-30 in my high school football career, and it felt great. One win blotted out at least ten losses and shoved the memories of the others to the back. Every day we could look down at our cheap, tin rings and know we'd achieved something great. I wrote the date and score of the game in very tiny print around the inside of mine. I am forty-one now, and I still wear the ring, and when someone gives me that odd look, I take it off and regale them with the story behind it. When I finish, I wake them, give them some Visine for their glazed-over eyes, and send them on their way.

The mighty fighting Dairymen were not finished winning that year, though. We won three of our next five games before getting clocked 42-14 by West Manchester. By this time we thought we were rock stars. Four wins and coach gave us a ring for each one. We wore all four at once, every day, flashing our hands around like we were somebody. Our walks were now struts, our friends were now entourages, our tables in the cafeteria saved for us like it was a New York City night club.

The high of being 4-2 lasted a long time. Even after we started losing again, we still felt confident. We played every game like it was our last two hours to live. We may have lost, but the other team knew they had had to earn it. They walked off the field knowing they had been hit hard by a Dairyman, and the shame of that did not wash off easily.

So it came down to the last game of the season against New Castle. We were 4-5 with one last chance to win and end the season with a non-losing record. It hadn't been done by Wilcox High since 1968.

Coach Stark didn't give us a speech before the game this time. Usually he talked for about twenty minutes, mental preparation to be tough and smart. To remember why we play the game. Play with pride and sportsmanship and leave your mark, preferably somewhere in the middle of your opponent's chest.

But this night was different. He gathered us all together on one knee. "Gentleman, raise the hand you normally wear your rings on." Twenty-seven hands went up, rights mainly with a few lefties mixed in. "Look at your hand and imagine you are wearing your rings right now."

I stared at my hand for really the first time. Mine was small, and my fingers were stubby. I made a mental note to thank Dad for that later. Then I saw the rings. Four thin bands of tin sparkling like diamonds.

Coach waited, letting our mental pictures settle in. Then he gave us our only instructions for the night.

"Get out there and win one for the thumb!" he screamed at the top of his lungs and sent us out the door of the locker room like a pack of wild dogs.

We played that way for most of the game. Whenever we would get in trouble, we would huddle up and just stare at our hands for a second. New Castle couldn't handle us on defense. They never got past midfield the whole game, and we knocked the starting quarterback out with a concussion. His replacement looked like a deer to us, dinner for a pack of starving wolves. We chased him here, we chased him there, and when we caught him, we let Bambi know the fire was closing in.

If our offense had been as good as our defense, there would have been nothing to worry about. We scored on our first possession but missed the extra point and then couldn't score again. Coach called a timeout with 39 seconds left in the game. We had just given the ball back to New Castle and our 6-0 lead was shaky. If New Castle could score, with the extra point we would lose 7-6, and it would be another losing season for the Dairymen.

Coach huddled up the defense and told us we had tied a school record.

"You guys have ten sacks tonight. That ties the record. How about one more? Break the record, win the game, and go home with a cheerleader."

"How about four more, smash the record, and go home with the head cheerleader?" I said, feeling full of myself. My motor was revving over the red line. I wanted to win so badly I could taste it. Really, my mouth was coated in grass, dirt, and a little blood. I needed a post-game celebratory Coke desperately. Coach laughed at my outburst and smacked us all around in that traditional football manner that outsiders never understand.

Coach Stark ran off the field and it was up to us. We could make history for our poor school. We would be the topic of conversation for at least a year at the diner and our hands would be full of metal.