Football is Athletic Tape

“Name?” Coach Peak asked.

“Shawn Humphrey.”

“How do you spell that?”

“S…”

“No, your last name.”

“H-U-M-P-H-R-E-Y”

“Number?”

“32.”

Coach Peak jotted down my answers on a piece of athletic tape. He was new to the coaching staff—towering, gruff and initially intimidating, he would become one of our most beloved coaches, known for his sharp wit and sense of humor.  

As a rising sophomore, I stood beside him staring at a locker in the basement of my old middle school – a locker that was about to become mine for the duration of two-a-days.

Bearing signs of exasperation as he surveyed the chaotic scene of more than fifty teenage boys roughhousing, snapping towels, and filling the air with raucous laughter, he pulled a length of tape with my name and number on it, ripped it away from the roll with his teeth, and fastened it to the locker. My face broke into a wide, overeager smile, eliciting a roll of the eyes from Coach Peak and a barely perceptible, yet undeniably present, crack of a sideways smile.

In that moment, with that simple piece of tape, it was official: the all-consuming summer-long wait was over. I was here, and football season was officially starting!

Yet, just one or two or maybe a few days later I was climbing those cement steps from the locker room to the coaches’ office asking for permission to leave the morning practice early. My stepfather was being sent off to prison, and my dad was coming down from Canada, possibly to take me and my older-by-one-year sister with him. We went to Fernbank Park along the majestic Ohio River to consider his proposal.

There, we decided to stay with our mom and younger sister.  

None of us could have foreseen the economic hardship, anxiety, stress, and burden that would soon engulf our family.

With no breadwinner, my sister worked the after-school shift at Burger King. Our mom worked the late-night shift after her, scrubbing fryers until 3 a.m. the following morning.

I was too young to work.

Utilities were cut off, our only car faced repossession, and the cupboards were often empty.

To protect our younger sister, we chose to keep the truth about our step-father’s incarceration from her, as well as from the rest of the family, except for our grandmother.

It is unclear which was more difficult: concealing the secret or enduring economic hardship.

Keeping the secret had a silencing effect—even when I desperately needed help, I remained quiet, fearing the consequences of disclosure. Not knowing who was aware or unaware of our situation made me feel isolated and estranged from those around me.

I don’t want to overstate this. I had support. I had my dad in Canada. I had people around me—particularly my grandmother, who provided stability, even though she was an hour away.

Although we all lived under the same roof, the secret and economic hardship had a fracturing effect. They pulled us apart as we struggled to cope with the fallout.

I felt alone.

On top of that, I was grappling with the challenges of adolescence.

Needing additional support—an emotional anchor outside of our household—I turned to football.

After Fernbank Park, I returned to football practice. I did not participate in the afternoon session. I stood on the sidelines—whether in pads or street clothes, I do not remember. I do remember one of my teammates, someone older than me, making a play—perhaps a catch or tackle—on the sidelines where I was standing. As he got up off the ground, his eyes, initially blazing with the fire of competition, instantly softened when they met mine.

No words were exchanged.

But I felt his concern and empathy.

I still feel it today.

He did not know the specifics of what I was going through.

No one did. No one would.

But he knew I was going through something.

He knew I was struggling.

And in that instant, I knew that these are my boys.

My family.

I am loved.

The love of my teammates and coaches helped me, a frightened boy, carry the overwhelming weight of that secret and endure economic upheaval.

At the end of two-a-days, as my teammates jubilantly tore off the athletic tape affixed to the top of their lockers, the tape displaying their names and numbers—discarding them or tossing them into the trash in a well-earned celebration—I carefully peeled mine off, tucked it into my pocket, brought it home with me, and attached it to the metal door of my bedroom closet.

I have it with me to this day.

People often use physical mementos—such as rings, lockets, bracelets, necklaces, pocketknives, and compasses made of gold, silver, or platinum and adorned with diamonds and gems—as reminders of our love and our commitment.

For me, that symbol, that artifact, that reminder that I was loved, just happens to take the form of a piece of athletic tape from the summer of 1986 with my name and number marked in black on it.

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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.

Stay tuned for future updates on instagram (@blucollarprof).

Read previous posts in this series.

Thanks for reading! – shawn