The other 9C semifinal game pitted the Buffalo Gap Buffalo from the southwest part of the state against the Forestburg Melons from near Huron. The Melons were the top-seeded team in the state and lived up to their ranking with a 50-4 win.
We were ready for them.
The week leading up to the title game is a fun one. We were the talk of the town, heroes even. It’s not like we had the cross country team to compete with for glory. We didn’t have one. Shindler guys don’t like running any farther than to the mailbox and back. Besides, we deal in yards, not meters. Nobody on the team knows how far 5,000 meters is - only that we don’t want to run that far to find out.
So we reveled in our glory until we loaded up the bus at 5 a.m. on Saturday for our 8 a.m. game. Seems kind of goofy to be playing that early in the morning, but since South Dakota has expanded to 12 classes in football it’s a necessity.
I was a little concerned with how quiet our bus was though. Usually, we’re a pretty loosey-goosey bunch. Ninety-nine bottle of beer on the wall, and all that stuff. Not today. Seemed like we were going to a funeral. The only noise was Crash’s snoring - that is until we reached Lesterville. Then there was such an explosion, I thought we hit a landmine. Then I saw the smoke rolling out of the hood. It took about 10 seconds for the inside of the bus to become filled with black, choking smoke.
The Dutchies busted open the emergency exit, something they’d dreamed of doing for years. We caught the players, coaches and bus drivers as they did all sorts of dives out the back door. Coach Fitzpatrick was the last one out and immediately did a head count on all the players.
We were missing one. Crash.
I panicked. Smoke billowed out the bus windows. The front third of the bus was in flames. It didn’t matter. The Snapping Turtles never leave another Turtle behind!
I dove into the bus, busting through Coach’s arms as he tried to stop me. I couldn’t see anything, but felt in the back seat. I grabbed an arm. Heard him. Still snoring logs. That pissed me off. I yanked him toward me. He awoke, startled, hollered: “Miley, Miley, no!”
I threw him out the door. Coach caught him. Crash rubbed his eyes and yawned. I fell on the ground and coughed up a West Virginia coal mine.
Car after car drove by, no doubt feeling sorry for the poor Bible campers, but not so bad as to actually stop. We collected ourselves on the side of the road. The Forestberg team bus drove by and 12 Melons mooned us.
Old Dutch finally had enough. He scanned the highway and waited. A minute passed before he spotted his victim - a farmer in John Deere tractor pulling a flatbed of hay bales. Old Dutch jumped into the west bound land and held up his hand like a traffic cop ordering the vehicle to stop. The farmer did.
Old Dutch ordered him to take us to the Dome. (I think he might have implied that he had a handgun in his pocket, but I’m not saying he did.)
So we threw our gym bags and the equipment we’d managed to salvage on top of the bales and climbed aboard. Coach sat in the cab with the farmer.
It was by far the slowest and coldest ride of my life.It was 7:45 when the hay truck pulled up to the Dome. Any excitement we had for seeing the Seventh Wonder of South Dakota was frozen out of us - by cold and by the fear that we missed the kickoff.
You never saw a group of Snapping Turtles move so fast as we ran to the locker room and listened to the introduction of the Melons while we changed into our uniforms. Two minutes to kickoff and we were ready to go, frantic and frazzled, but ready to go. That is, all but Crash. He couldn’t find his cleats. He told us to go out and he’d catch up. I sure hoped so.
Crash must’ve tried on every shoe in the locker room, but couldn’t find anything that fit. Turns out he has the smallest feet known to teenage boys - a size 7.
He missed the coin flip, and I was getting really nervous. The team was tense enough the way it was, but without Crash there to soothe us, we were babbling idiots. As we lost the flip, and the Dutchies were threatening suicide, I looked over and saw Crash in our fan section.
As is tradition, the fans for each team usually have a theme on championship day. Some choose hunter outfits, some beachwear, some shirtless with body paint. Ours chose pajamas. Fine - until I noticed Crash talking to Tena. Then I saw Tena take off her slippers. Then I saw Crash try them on. Then I saw him give her a high-five.
Then I heard 6,000 people in the Dome and the entire state of South Dakota laugh as Crash jogged onto the field to join our kickoff return team wearing Tena’s slippers … fuzzy … pink … rabbit slippers … with rabbit ears flopping.
Crash ran over next to me and hollered over the din: “Better than Nikes! Look at the grip on these suckers.” And he bounded back and forth. He was ready. So were we.
Unfortunately, so was Forestburg.I have to admit: Those were some thumpin’ Melons. We hit them hard. They hit us harder.
All the experts in the sports media predicted a high-scoring offensive shootout. They should stick to what they know best: Beer. Because this turned into a battle of punters. Three plays, punt. Three plays, punt, three plays, well I don’t have to spell it out for you.
End of first quarter: 0-0.
Halftime: 0-0.
End of third quarter: 0-0.
It’s not that Crash was off his passing game. It’s that none of our guys could get open. He’d put the ball on the spot and it would get batted away or the Dutchies would get flattened by steamrolling Melons. Our running backs took a licking too.
And it was the same for Forestberg’s offense.
Nobody bent. Nobody buckled.
It all came down to the 10 seconds left in the game. We had the ball on the 50. Third down. Coach was thinking Hail Mary. I was thinking overtime.
Crash was in the huddle, just thinking.
He changed the play. He drew up a play on the palm of his hand. “Dutch go wide right. Twenty yards out, turn out like I’m going to hit you there. Old Dutch go wide left. Fake in, then sprint like you’ve never sprinted to the end zone. The ball will be waiting. Catch it. Everybody else, block those Melonheads.”
The thing is, when Crash said something, nobody doubted it. We broke huddle, knowing we would score. But only Crash knew how that was going to happen.
The ball was snapped to Crash back in the shotgun. He bounced on his toes, the rabbit ears bounced too. Our line blocked hard and well. The Dutchies screamed down the sidelines.
I caught a glimpse of Crash out of the corner of my eye. He had the ball tucked under his left arm, still in the pocket. I saw him lift his left foot and reach down with his right hand. He pulled off a bunny slipper. Set his feet and reared back. He looked right and threw that bunny slipper as hard as he’s thrown anything. It sailed toward Dutch. It was Crash’s first spiral ever. All the defensive backs broke toward Dutch. By the time they saw the rabbit ears unfurl, it was too late, and they knew it.
Crash then pulled the football out from under his left arm, reared back again and unleashed a 55-five yard bomb to Old Dutch flying into the end zone. Old Dutch dived. Grabbed the ball. Pulled it into his belly. Touchdown!
Time expired. We went nuts, The Forestburg coaches went nuttier. They screamed at the refs that something illegal must have happened. But the refs couldn’t find anything in the rule book about throwing a shoe, much less throwing a bunny slipper.
Final score: Shindler 6, Forestburg 0.
Amid the celebration, I returned the slipper to our Cinderella, Tena Swenson. She gave me a hug.
Crash came over and gave her the other slipper off his foot. She gave him a long Swedish kiss.
I’ve never had one of those. But Crash said it was really, really good.
And who am I to doubt him?
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