Cullyrock

Not that he was tall, muscular, or imposing, mind you; but Coach Cullivan was a giant. He was a rough and country ol’ hillbilly. He was also a psychological master. He got in your head. It began with the gimlet eye. Coach Cullivan had piercing eyes that, whether he was aware of it or not, saw into your secret chest … where you hid yourself. If he liked what he saw, he brought it out and made you keep it. If he didn’t, he helped you to maim, pillage, and kill it.

Like most giants in my life, I hated him. That’s the way the dance begins. Akin to breakdancing the initial dance with giants is rough, awkward, painful. Then there’s the slow dance that’s comforting and understandable. And when the dance is almost over – though you don’t know it till it is – the party really begins. It ends too soon. But you know how to dance … all by yourself.

“The frost is on the pumpkin!” That was Coach Cullivan’s seasonal mantra. What he meant was that the games were about to begin. After four to six weeks of practice, even the weather was getting ready to participate in the sport of the gods: Football.

I’ve spent about 30 years telling Culivan stories. There’s no need to embellish them, the truth will suffice. He’d never make it in today’s politically correct world. Unfortunately, people don’t dance like they used to.

Coach Cullivan was a portly fellow with liver spots, grey eyes, thinning hair, and a set of lungs. A necessity of the job: he could yell. Football is the only sport I know of where when someone screams your name, your last name, with terror in their eyes and a blast in their voice, it’s a good thing. At least it’s good if you’re a bench warmer.

“Huneycutt!” I’d been giggling and swapping stories with my other bench buddies. We were freshmen and in no fear of game time.

“Huneycutt! Where’s Huneycutt!” Huneycutt was a familiar name in those parts. He could have been yelling for anyone.

“Huneycutt!” O my gosh. “Get in there!” See what I mean? What he meant was that someone had screwed up or gotten hurt and now it was my shot at the big show.

High school football in rural North Carolina is second only to church. And that’s probably due to a shorter season: church is year round. A good showing in a big game will grant you a lifetime of fame within a small kingdom. You, too, may be a big fish in a small pond.

I don’t remember that first showing. In fact, I remember precious few game moments: sacking QB Rick Ferebee (the picture was in the paper); pulverizing a little guy in the backfield once when I lucked up; being on the bottom of a huge pile and anonymously pinching & poking the baby-fat of the best player in the county; barely missing blocking a game-winning field goal. Then there’s one other personal game memory, which I’ll get to later.

My memories are all about practice. Coach Cullivan loved football practice. In my experience, the North Stanly Comets never won many games. But golly did we ever practice!

Coach had rules about fighting during practice. If two guys got into a shoving match, he might simply yell at them, shove them apart, and let it go. If it came to blows, that was a different matter. Those who weren’t fighting were, at Coach’s direction, gathered around in a circle with the boxers in the center. If they wanted to stay on the team, the two had to continue fighting until Coach Cullivan blew his whistle. He would always allow them to fight until every drop of energy was expended. I’ve seen guys laying there, looking like they were simply trying to move their arm around to the other side, in a sleepy haze. Once they were exhausted, he’d sound his whistle and we’d get back to practicing, sans the fighters. The only thing left for them to do was to run 10 laps after practice, holding hands. As I recall we only had one fight per season.

Anyone who has ever played organized football is familiar with two-a-days: practice in the morning and later in the evening. Coach Cullivan did that one better. At football camp we had three-a-days. We practiced before breakfast, after lunch, and before dinner … late dinner.

Our archrival was the city school, the Albemarle Bulldogs. My first tour of football camp was in Reedy Creek, North Carolina, in the summer of 1976. That year, Coach Cullivan taught us a chant: “I’m a Comet, tough and mean, whip any Dog I’ve ever seen!” We had to chant it while we ran laps, during calisthenics, and before and after meals. Coach Cullivan rarely lost to the Albemarle Bulldogs.

The “board drill” was a test of coordination, timing, skill, and brute strength. A plank of wood, 2×4, was placed on the ground and two opponents straddled the wood and crouched in stance anticipating the whistle’s blast. Board drills were fairly predictable: biggest or meanest guy wins. Every now and then we were surprised by a smaller guy’s strength. But normally, football acts normally.

Now before I continue with the story of the board drill in July of 1976, I have to tell you about David Hoff. I don’t remember the year, it may have been before or after Reedy Creek. No matter; it’s necessary background.

In the off season all football players were required to take 5th period gym class with Coach Cullivan. Actually, it wasn’t just in the off season, during season we simply began practice early.

Anyway, Coach would have us do some silly things to help coordination. One such activity was playing basketball, full court with a football. And yes, we had to [try to] dribble. In addition to calisthenics, running, and weight lifting, we also had to wrestle each other.

Coach would normally pair opponents who were fairly equal in strength and agility. Competition helped to build character – and what good was a character puffed up by weaker opponents?

Some guys just never get with the program. Not everyone is thrilled to work up a sweat. David Hoff was one of them. During times of random rotation, everyone on the team enjoyed wrestling David. He was an easy pin. You could tell he had a complex of some sort. He didn’t want to be there. God bless him, he looked like a loser.

One day, after he’d lost his third consecutive match, Coach Cullivan yanked him up off the mat and slapped him across the face. Hoff flinched, his fists balled. Cullivan yelled, “Hit me!” Hoff was tearing up and said, “I can’t hit you, Coach.” Cullivan hauled off and slapped him again. Stunned, red faced, and crying, Hoff again flinched. He almost brought up a hand. Through tears he said, “I can’t hit you, Coach.” Somewhere during the pregnant pause, Hoff decided to pat the Coach across the cheek. “Dammit, Hoff, I said, Hit me!” With that Coach Cullivan went to hit the boy again and David Hoff slapped the fool out of Jim Cullivan. “Now get down there and wrestle,” Coach said.

David Hoff beat every single man on the team that afternoon. Though we were all amazed, no one was more surprised than Mr. Hoff. I’ve not seen him since graduation, but I’ve got to believe his life changed that day.

Okay. Back to the board drill. My friend, Jimmy Barnes, was a scrapper. He tried hard, but sometimes ran out of steam – quit fighting – before it was time. Barry Davis, on the other hand, was a star player: handsome, big, and would flat out knock you down!

On a blasted hot day in July of 1976, during the board drill portion of three-a-days, Coach Cullivan paired Jimmy Barnes with Barry Davis. After the two players had gotten into their stance, he’d no sooner blown the whistle when Barnes was on his butt and Barry trotted over him victoriously.

Instead of yelling, “Next!” Coach had us all gather ‘round. He made Barry and Jimmy get into position once again. As they held their stance, Coach began to talk. He lectured us on the board drill, how it worked, what to look and listen for, and how to win. After what seemed a ridiculously long time he said, “How many of you think Barry Davis is going to win?” Every single North Stanly Comet raised his hand. “Now. How many of you think Jimmy Barnes is going to win?” Only one hand went up: Jim Cullivan’s.

The next thing to happen was another speech. Coach Cullivan reached down behind Barnes and pulled a hair off his right leg. When Barnes flinched, he was told not to move. For the next 10 minutes, with every sentence or two, Barnes lost a leg hair, while Coach Cullivan sang praises of his potential.

The whistle blew. There was a loud crash. Jimmy Barnes flattened the star. Everyone, save Jim Cullivan, was astounded – especially Barry Davis. Coach made Barry go sit on the bus to watch the remainder of practice. Both men grew that day.

Coach wasn’t always on his best behaviour. There was one game where he threw a whole bag of footballs onto the field in protest of something the refs had done. He never cussed, not the way most folks do. Rather, he said things like, “Gee-My-Nittley!” A lot. We only heard him say the “N” word once. Mind you, my high school was 51% black … but when Stephon Bullware did something in error, I don’t remember what, he was called to the sidelines and, in front of God and everyone, was heard: “I’m the head nigger ‘round here!” Due to creeping sensitivities (even back in the 70’s), white guys hardly ever told that story – at least not as much as our black brethren did (with a smile).

Back at football camp in Reedy Creek, we practiced on baseball fields. In other words, there was a lot of sand. One drill that was repeated over and over was called: “pull the trigger”. That’s where you dive at the feet of the ball runner and wrap up his ankles. Sand has a way of tearing up the flesh during such enterprises. Only those who’d performed the routine correctly bled. Coach told us that the scars would help to remind us what to do come game time.

Here’s where my game story comes in. There was a memorable game where, having made my way into the opponents’ backfield, I found myself trailing the running back as he approached the goal line. It was ingrained in my brain like an earworm: “Pull the trigger! Pull the trigger, Huneycutt!” I pulled the trigger. It was text book. All except for the part where the runner’s heel connected with my chin. The nicest way to say this is: It really hurt. But in those days, I played both offense and defense. There was no time to rest.

A few plays later I realized that my chin strap felt warm and wet. Unbuckling it, I also noticed it was red. Very red. I turned to my partner, Marcus Harward, and said, “Am I bleeding?” Instead of “Gee-My-Nittley,” Marcus said something worse. For the only time, voluntarily, in my football career, I ran to the sidelines. I showed Coach Cullivan my chin. He yelled at the Trainer to get me a band-aid. He sent me back into game saying, “It’s just a scratch, you’ll be alright.” I played the rest of the game. We lost. At game’s end I noticed Cullivan talking with my parents. He took me to the Emergency Room in his own car. We didn’t have a whole lot to talk about on the way. As they were stitching me up (nine, if I recall), he was asked if he were my father. I couldn’t believe those folks didn’t know who he was. For me, he was monumental; but he wasn’t my Dad. We talked as little on the way home. I didn’t need to tell him that I now had a constant reminder of pulling the trigger. Yet for me, riding alone with the man to and from the hospital was worth the pain.

Then there was the time, back at Camp ‘76, when Steve Dial, Jimmy Barnes, and I were late for dinner. All three of us loved music – kept up with Casey Kasem’s American Top-40 – and were, though it was against the rules, listening to a transistor radio out by the showers. I’m almost ashamed to say that we were eagerly awaiting Starland Vocal Band’s “Afternoon Delight”. By the time it played, and we’d sang along with gusto, we were late to shower, even later to dinner. No one said anything to us. The coaching staff was downright friendly. It wasn’t until dinner’s end, as it poured rain outside, that Coach Cullivan made a speech about singing. He said he liked to sing. He understood that there were others in our midst that loved to sing. (By now we were starting to worry.) And, though he appreciated singing, we should always show up for scheduled events on time. With that he announced that three football players would now perform “I’m a Comet …” for the enjoyment of the assembly … and whilst running 20 laps outside in the courtyard (in the pouring rain).

My senior year saw my first season under a new coach. Cullivan had gone on to coach somewhere else. As I’d mentioned earlier, we hadn’t won many games under him. At the time, most of us were convinced that being shed of him would lead to better things: namely, victory.

Though we won more games than the previous year, I’m not sure we were the better for it. Coach Cullivan always had us to stay on the school’s campus, under his eye, from the time school got out til kickoff, on game days. We even ate dinner together. Not so with the new coach. We were teens, we weren’t up to much good. Doing the right thing, even on game day, was not always a priority.

Heck, back during my junior year, Coach Cullivan even interfered with our love lives. It seems that he thought that attention to our girlfriends was causing us sufficient distraction to lose football games. Following a loss on the road, as the bus pulled into home turf, he announced that none of us would be allowed to even speak to a female – except family members & teachers – from that point until next week’s game. If so caught or reported, we’d be kicked off the team. His coaching assistants actually called our homes during that week to make sure we were home after practice. Teachers were instructed to narc on offenders. Though the girls had fun with it, and more than a few players were hauled in for questioning, we all made it through that week. We beat the crap out of the next bunch of males we faced.

So here we were, senior year, Cullivan-less and losing … to Albemarle. It was the final minutes of the game. We’d been struggling long and hard for a touchdown. The Bulldogs seemed to be scoring at will. There was only 2:46 left on the clock. We were on the 18 yard line. It was third and long. We were worn out.

Like a scene from a movie, Roger Prince came running into the huddle yelling, “It’s him! It’s him! See him? It’s Mister C! Cullyrock is here!” We didn’t believe him; hadn’t heard from the old man since he left. In unison we all looked down the length of the field to the opposing goal. There stood a figure whose long dark drench coat was flapping in the wind. He had his hands in his pockets and stood motionless. I almost cried. We all looked at each other with eyes that revealed shame, for ever wishing the man gone; fear, at the possibility of letting him down; and, amazement: “Gosh, he’s here!”

I’ve already told you it was like a movie, so you know what comes next: we scored. With the extra point, we went up by 2. With over two minutes remaining, all Albemarle had to do was get a 3-point field goal and our worst fears would materialize.

Every year, every team – regardless of coach – practices a couple outrageous plays. These are plays that you rarely see in real life. They’re there just in case. What came next was a perfect example. Barry Davis was our place kicker. The Bulldogs were ready, we were scared. The whistle sounded, and as Barry trotted up to kick the ball … he fell down. Our opponents stood up; there was laughter from the visitors’ bleachers. Kevin Chandler, who was standing by the bal, squib-kicked a perfect onside kick – just like we’d rehearsed it! We recovered. I’m not sure the Bulldogs ever did:

“I’m a Comet, tough and mean … whip any Dog I’ve ever seen!”

God bless Jim Cullivan: a rock upon which we all built our manhood.