\tNot that he was tall, muscular, or imposing, mind you; but Coach Cullivan was a giant. He was a rough and country ol\u2019 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 \u2026 where you hid yourself. If he liked what he saw, he brought it out and made you keep it. If he didn\u2019t, he helped you to maim, pillage, and kill it.<\/p>\n
\tLike most giants in my life, I hated him. That\u2019s the way the dance begins. Akin to breakdancing the initial dance with giants is rough, awkward, painful. Then there\u2019s the slow dance that\u2019s comforting and understandable. And when the dance is almost over \u2013 though you don\u2019t know it till it is \u2013 the party really begins. It ends too soon. But you know how to dance \u2026 all by yourself.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cThe frost is on the pumpkin!\u201d That was Coach Cullivan\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
\tI\u2019ve spent about 30 years telling Culivan stories. There\u2019s no need to embellish them, the truth will suffice. He\u2019d never make it in today\u2019s politically correct world. Unfortunately, people don\u2019t dance like they used to.<\/p>\n
\tCoach 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\u2019s a good thing. At least it\u2019s good if you\u2019re a bench warmer.\t<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHuneycutt!\u201d I\u2019d been giggling and swapping stories with my other bench buddies. We were freshmen and in no fear of game time.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHuneycutt! Where\u2019s Huneycutt!\u201d Huneycutt was a familiar name in those parts. He could have been yelling for anyone.<\/p>\n
\t\u201cHuneycutt!\u201d O my gosh. \u201cGet in there!\u201d 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.<\/p>\n
\tHigh school football in rural North Carolina is second only to church. And that\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
\tI don\u2019t 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\u2019s one other personal game memory, which I\u2019ll get to later.<\/p>\n
\tMy 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!\t<\/p>\n
\tCoach 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\u2019t fighting were, at Coach\u2019s 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\u2019ve 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\u2019d sound his whistle and we\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n
\tAnyone 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 \u2026 late dinner.<\/p>\n
\tOur 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: \u201cI\u2019m a Comet, tough and mean, whip any Dog I\u2019ve ever seen!\u201d We had to chant it while we ran laps, during calisthenics, and before and after meals. Coach Cullivan rarely lost to the Albemarle Bulldogs.<\/p>\n
\tThe \u201cboard drill\u201d was a test of coordination, timing, skill, and brute strength. A plank of wood, 2\u00d74, was placed on the ground and two opponents straddled the wood and crouched in stance anticipating the whistle\u2019s blast. Board drills were fairly predictable: biggest or meanest guy wins. Every now and then we were surprised by a smaller guy\u2019s strength. But normally, football acts normally.<\/p>\n
\tNow before I continue with the story of the board drill in July of 1976, I have to tell you about David Hoff. I don\u2019t remember the year, it may have been before or after Reedy Creek. No matter; it\u2019s necessary background.<\/p>\n
\tIn the off season all football players were required to take 5th period gym class with Coach Cullivan. Actually, it wasn\u2019t just in the off season, during season we simply began practice early.<\/p>\n
\tAnyway, 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.<\/p>\n
\tCoach would normally pair opponents who were fairly equal in strength and agility. Competition helped to build character \u2013 and what good was a character puffed up by weaker opponents?<\/p>\n
\tSome 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\u2019t want to be there. God bless him, he looked like a loser.<\/p>\n
\tOne day, after he\u2019d 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, \u201cHit me!\u201d Hoff was tearing up and said, \u201cI can\u2019t hit you, Coach.\u201d 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, \u201cI can\u2019t hit you, Coach.\u201d Somewhere during the pregnant pause, Hoff decided to pat the Coach across the cheek. \u201cDammit, Hoff, I said, Hit me!\u201d With that Coach Cullivan went to hit the boy again and David Hoff slapped the fool out of Jim Cullivan. \u201cNow get down there and wrestle,\u201d Coach said.<\/p>\n
\tDavid Hoff beat every single man on the team that afternoon. Though we were all amazed, no one was more surprised than Mr. Hoff. I\u2019ve not seen him since graduation, but I\u2019ve got to believe his life changed that day.<\/p>\n
\tOkay. Back to the board drill. My friend, Jimmy Barnes, was a scrapper. He tried hard, but sometimes ran out of steam \u2013 quit fighting \u2013 before it was time. Barry Davis, on the other hand, was a star player: handsome, big, and would flat out knock you down!<\/p>\n
\tOn 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\u2019d no sooner blown the whistle when Barnes was on his butt and Barry trotted over him victoriously.<\/p>\n
\tInstead of yelling, \u201cNext!\u201d Coach had us all gather \u2018round. 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, \u201cHow many of you think Barry Davis is going to win?\u201d Every single North Stanly Comet raised his hand. \u201cNow. How many of you think Jimmy Barnes is going to win?\u201d Only one hand went up: Jim Cullivan\u2019s.<\/p>\n
\tThe 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.<\/p>\n
\tThe whistle blew. There was a loud crash. Jimmy Barnes flattened the star. Everyone, save Jim Cullivan, was astounded \u2013 especially Barry Davis. Coach made Barry go sit on the bus to watch the remainder of practice. Both men grew that day.\t<\/p>\n
Coach wasn\u2019t 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, \u201cGee-My-Nittley!\u201d A lot. We only heard him say the \u201cN\u201d word once. Mind you, my high school was 51% black \u2026 but when Stephon Bullware did something in error, I don\u2019t remember what, he was called to the sidelines and, in front of God and everyone, was heard: \u201cI\u2019m the head nigger \u2018round here!\u201d Due to creeping sensitivities (even back in the 70\u2019s), white guys hardly ever told that story \u2013 at least not as much as our black brethren did (with a smile).<\/p>\n
\tBack 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: \u201cpull the trigger\u201d. That\u2019s 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\u2019d performed the routine correctly bled. Coach told us that the scars would help to remind us what to do come game time. <\/p>\n
\tHere\u2019s where my game story comes in. There was a memorable game where, having made my way into the opponents\u2019 backfield, I found myself trailing the running back as he approached the goal line. It was ingrained in my brain like an earworm: \u201cPull the trigger! Pull the trigger, Huneycutt!\u201d I pulled the trigger. It was text book. All except for the part where the runner\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
\tA 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, \u201cAm I bleeding?\u201d Instead of \u201cGee-My-Nittley,\u201d 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, \u201cIt\u2019s just a scratch, you\u2019ll be alright.\u201d I played the rest of the game. We lost. At game\u2019s end I noticed Cullivan talking with my parents. He took me to the Emergency Room in his own car. We didn\u2019t 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\u2019t believe those folks didn\u2019t know who he was. For me, he was monumental; but he wasn\u2019t my Dad. We talked as little on the way home. I didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
\tThen there was the time, back at Camp \u201876, when Steve Dial, Jimmy Barnes, and I were late for dinner. All three of us loved music \u2013 kept up with Casey Kasem\u2019s American Top-40 \u2013 and were, though it was against the rules, listening to a transistor radio out by the showers. I\u2019m almost ashamed to say that we were eagerly awaiting Starland Vocal Band\u2019s \u201cAfternoon Delight\u201d. By the time it played, and we\u2019d 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\u2019t until dinner\u2019s 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 \u201cI\u2019m a Comet \u2026\u201d for the enjoyment of the assembly \u2026 and whilst running 20 laps outside in the courtyard (in the pouring rain).<\/p>\n
\tMy senior year saw my first season under a new coach. Cullivan had gone on to coach somewhere else. As I\u2019d mentioned earlier, we hadn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
\tThough we won more games than the previous year, I\u2019m not sure we were the better for it. Coach Cullivan always had us to stay on the school\u2019s 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\u2019t up to much good. Doing the right thing, even on game day, was not always a priority.<\/p>\n
\tHeck, 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 \u2013 except family members & teachers \u2013 from that point until next week\u2019s game. If so caught or reported, we\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n
\tSo here we were, senior year, Cullivan-less and losing \u2026 to Albemarle. It was the final minutes of the game. We\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n
\tLike a scene from a movie, Roger Prince came running into the huddle yelling, \u201cIt\u2019s him! It\u2019s him! See him? It\u2019s Mister C! Cullyrock is here!\u201d We didn\u2019t believe him; hadn\u2019t 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: \u201cGosh, he\u2019s here!\u201d<\/p>\n
\tI\u2019ve 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.<\/p>\n
\tEvery year, every team \u2013 regardless of coach \u2013 practices a couple outrageous plays. These are plays that you rarely see in real life. They\u2019re 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 \u2026 he fell down. Our opponents stood up; there was laughter from the visitors\u2019 bleachers. Kevin Chandler, who was standing by the bal, squib-kicked a perfect onside kick \u2013 just like we\u2019d rehearsed it! We recovered. I\u2019m not sure the Bulldogs ever did: \u201cI\u2019m a Comet, tough and mean \u2026 whip any Dog I\u2019ve ever seen!\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n God bless Jim Cullivan: a rock upon which we all built our manhood. Not that he was tall, muscular, or imposing, mind you; but Coach Cullivan was a giant. He was a rough and country ol\u2019 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, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1691,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2282","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\n
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