Cris Collinsworth

Here’s what happened: we were running late.

Of course, we were.

Then, as I was getting dressed, someone hollered, “We need gas!”

Of course, we did.

We weren’t a full-tank family.

Gas came gallon by gallon, as needed.

And right then, we needed some gallons.

So, with my tie hanging untied around my neck, I grabbed the keys and some cash.

That tie—I can’t remember if it was mine or one of my stepfather’s.

And a suit jacket?

We couldn’t afford one.

I know that because, a few months later, on the night of the Basketball Homecoming, Mr. Floyd, my high school assistant principal, quietly took off his own jacket and handed it to me.

I was part of the homecoming court and he wanted me to look the part.

That night has stayed with me—not the homecoming festivities.

Mr. Floyd looking out for me.

And those dollars—I’m not sure where they came from.

More than likely, the money came from a bank envelope in Mom’s purse.

You know the type—tall and thin, with a flap at the top—the kind banks give for cash withdrawals. Those envelopes were our family’s wallet. We got a new one each month, one for each pay period. You could track time by its thickness—plump and full at the start.

Then thinning.

Week by week.

Like it was on a hunger strike.

On this day, it was skinny.

Near empty.

Just like our tank.

So, I jumped into the Oldsmobile and turned the key.

She started, then sputtered.

Then sputtered out.

I tried again with some “Come on, girl” encouragement.

She turned over.

With the needle dancing on “E,” I eased her out of the driveway and then down to George’s 76 station.

I put some gas in the tank, swung back home to pick up the family, and with a mix of worry and urgency, we made it to our destination: a hotel in downtown Cincinnati.

The conference room was dimly lit, with tables covered in white linens. Servers moved quietly in the background. Mom fussed at the table, fixing her hair and adjusting her blouse after the chaos of getting us out the house.

I sat there, looking around, feeling out of place, and fighting the instinct—one born of the rivers and smokestacks that raised me—to loosen my tie, unbutton my top button, and roll up my sleeves.

Even now, I avoid the black-tie gatherings for similar reasons.

But there was no avoiding this event.

Cris Collinsworth, #80 for the Cincinnati Bengals, had selected ten high school football players—seniors heading to college—from the metropolitan area to receive a scholarship.

I was one of them.

I don’t remember the details of the event—the speeches or the ceremony.

But I do remember Cris Collinsworth’s kindness and immense generosity.

And I remember this: someone put my name in the running.

Someone went out of their way to make this night possible for me.

More than likely, it was Coach Haag. But he never said, “I did that.”

Not to me. Not to my family.

No one took credit.

They just did it.

Now, I don’t mean to brag or anything.

But I’m from a small town.

A there-was-less-than-400-people-in-my-high-school-at-any-one-time small town.

In a town that small, anonymity isn’t an option.

You have eyes on you.

You can’t get away with anything.

And when you’re young that feels infuriating.

Like that time Shane and I were slinking down the street after a howling-at-the-moon Friday night—hoping to sneak in before our parents woke up. And then, just our luck, we passed the Martins out for their early Saturday morning walk.

Mr. Martin grinned.

“Rough night, boys?” he asked, laughing.

It was.

But as you grow older, you realize those eyes—they weren’t just keeping you in line.

They were holding you.

There’s a comfort in coming from there.

Even now as I live hundreds of miles away and hours apart.

Sitting here, emotions flowing from my fingertips.

Turning letters and symbols into a story.

Saying what I want to say in the way I want to say it.

Due in parts large and small to them.

To their quiet.

Hidden.

Work.

Mr. Floyd’s jacket.

The Cris Collinsworth scholarship.

The quiet acts of care from many I’ll never know I was the recipient of.

They steadied me, gave me a chance.

An opportunity.

Not to flee.

Not to escape.

Not leave and never come back.

But to chase what it was I needed to chase.

For me, that ended up being storytelling.

And as far as this story is concerned…

I want to document the wonder that happens on the edges of metropolitan areas, in places you might pass by at high velocity. Places ignored except when politicians need a photo op at one of our restaurants.

There is a quiet work happening—so subtle, so unassuming, that it’s easy to overlook. But it’s there, always there.

It stretches beneath the surface, silently connecting us.

Like a net of care catching us when we fall, propelling us forward.

Nurturing. Guiding. Holding.

Doing life’s heavy lifting—often before we know we need it.

Like the final scene in It’s a Wonderful Life—after Clarence has done his work and George reaches into his watch pocket, finding Zuzu’s petals once again. He runs home, kissing the tree he crashed into, calling out holiday greetings to the icons of his life along Main Street. Into the house, into the arms of his children. Mary rushes through the front door and up the stairs, grabs his hand, plants him in front of the Christmas tree. She sweeps the wrapping materials from the tabletop, places a basket at the center. And then, one by one, the people of George’s life step forward—cops, firefighters, and taxi drivers, butchers and bartenders, postal workers and bank tellers, hardware store owners and hairdressers, priests and city council members, insurance agents and gas station attendants, teachers, counselors, coaches, and neighbors—each adding what they can to the basket.

When we are at our best, that’s what we do for each other.

It’s our small-town superpower.

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This post is part of my latest book project titled: “Football is _______”

Every two weeks, I’ll fill in the above blank with a word or phrase and tell a story. I’ll do that for 52 weeks and then compile the posts into a book of essays.

I’d love for you to join me on this journey and share your thoughts or stories along the way. If you enjoyed this post, please consider sharing it with others who might appreciate it as well.

Read previous posts in this series.

Thanks for reading! – shawn