More Marcus Dupree

Must say, the Marcus Dupree 30 on 30 might be my favroite oner so far. It had everything: unfulfilled promise, then redemption in a short comeback. Regret on every side. Grown men still moved with wonder at talent from 30 years ago. Connection to the Civil Rights movement (his hometown was the town Mississippi Burning was based on, his childhood friend's father was the deputy sheriff linked to the murders and later got Marcus his job as a truck driver), the mysterious "Reverend" who Marcus trusts and of course gets ripped off by and, just to squeeze out a few more tears, the little brother with cerebral palsy ("Marcus Dupree cites Reggie as a possible reason for his exceptional efforts, because “He couldn’t play and run like I could run.”) And, in the end, a 45 year-old truck driver marveling at grainy black and white footage of his high school football games, wondering who that kid running all over the field was and only just barely believing it was himself.

Makes me wonder when someone from ESPN is gonna show up with footage of my blocked extra point against Lancaster. God, we were so young and talented. I know, Marcus. I know.

Also, Switzer's bafflement re: how to use Marcus reminds me of our coach fucking up with Harold Corbin.

I grew up riding with Harold on the bus. All of a sudden, on the first day of school one year he walked onto the bus and he was 6’3”, 220 and ripped. I mean, they invented muscles to give this guy. Ridiculous. And then it turned out he was the fastest dude in school too – he spent several years running track and completely dominating the wrestling team. An awesome physical specimen, but it took til his senior year to be convinced to play football. He showed up about 8 games into the season. We’re 0-8, and things aren’t even going as well as our record might suggest. We were down to 16 players from 40, we got crushed every week and our coach was a lunatic. A few days into the week, and it was an unusually hot day, I mean it was roasting, and Coach decides to run a drill where you line up three yards from each other and basically beat the shit out of each other. Whistle blows, you run into each other and fight til the whistle blows again. Who does Coach pair me with? Harold. Jesus christ. If you were lucky you’d hit one of his pads; otherwise you were subjected to the muscles he had, which were made from a mix of mortar, broken glass and, if my nose was not lying to me, lilacs spritzed with a hint of raspberry drizzle. He’s fucking shredding me, whistle after whistle, sun baking down on me as Harold is rearranging my bones. And by “rearranging my bones” i DON’T mean “whispered Barbara Cartland novels into my ear while dreaming of rainbows and puppies” Over and over. Finally, I fucking snap, “fuck this!” and walk off the field. I fucking quit. Had enough. We lose every game AND I gotta get drilled into my grave by Harold every 30 seconds? Thanks! I throw my helmet and start walking to the locker room. My brother chases me down to let me know that as a baby pussy quitter I no longer qualify for a ride home. Fuck you! Of course, by night time I regretted walking out and the next morning, walked into Coach’s office looking to beg forgiveness. Walking through the door, I stumbled for words and Coach looked up at me. No one says a word for about 15 seconds til finally he breaks into a grin. “I understand,” he said “I wouldn’t wanna hafta tackle Harold’s big black ass either.” The upshot? In his first game of organized football ever, Harold gets the ball on the first play and tears off a run for a 75-yard touchdown, LITERALLY carrying 6-7 dudes with him on the way. We were in awe, I can still close my eyes and see that run. Dudes peeling off him as he strolls to the end zone. “Things are about to change!” we’re all thinking. "We're gonna win games! And soon the Soviet Union will repeal the Brezhnev Doctrine in favor of non-intervention in the internal affairs of its Warsaw Pact allies!!" Of course, what happens? Coach decides to use Harold as a “decoy” the rest of the game. We lose by our usual 48-6. Fucking unreal. We were furious; looking back I can’t believe my brother, who was qb and was the only one with the guts and brains to ever stand up to the coach, didn’t just give the ball to Harold every play, fuck what Coach called. We coulda written a movie about it and called it “Varsity Blues.” Ah well. Needless to say, we never saw Harold on the field again.