“Hey, Hump”
I’m a sophomore.
It’s Friday in the fall.
I’m weaving my way down the bustling halls of Taylor High School wearing my football jersey. I make eye contact with Dana. He’s leaning up against some lockers. He’s wearing his jersey too. I give him a head nod. He gives me a head nod back and says with a big ole grin “Hey, Hump.”
I narrow my eyes in puzzlement.
“Yeah, that’s right. You’re Hump” he says.
That’s it.
Thereafter, in a collective, unorganized, and unspoken agreement, all of my teammates and coaches stop calling me “Shawn” and start calling me “Hump.”
“Hump” carries me all the way through high school.
I graduate and go to Earlham College to play football.
I’m part of a new community of teammates and coaches.
I’m without a history, reputation, or body of work to carry me forward. Part of me wants to say to my new teammates “I’m Shawn but my friends call me Hump.”
But I’m hesitant.
Is that allowed by the nickname gods?
Is that how a nickname is transmitted from one community to the next?
It seems sort of presumptuous. I am not of this community. Not yet. And, given that I have not yet proven myself, it seems that I do not have the authority to makes such a request. I decide that nicknames are bequeathed. Earned. Not requested.
I go by “Shawn.”
Oh, but I miss “Hump.”
I miss the connection and emotional proximity its verbalization signals, the comfort of being known and cared for by those who say it, and the way they say it.
“Shawn” carries me through two-a-days and up to our first scrimmage game. And even though I’m a freshman and I’ve got a senior starting at my position—meaning I may not even play—some of my boys from back home (JJ, Dan and Bill) drive up to watch the game.
They’re in the stands.
I’m on the sideline lying in wait.
My helmet is buckled and mouthpiece already in.
Coach Carr hollers “Shawn go in!”
I sprint onto the field.
A familiar chant rises from the stands.
It’s the chant of “Hump, Hump, Hump.”
It’s my boys from back home chanting “Hump, Hump, Hump.”
That’s it.
Thereafter, in a collective, unorganized, and unspoken agreement, all of my Earlham teammates and coaches stop calling me “Shawn” and start calling me “Hump.”
“Hump” carries me all the way through college.
I go on to pursue my Master’s degree in Virginia and then my Ph.D. in St. Louis.
I go by “Shawn.”
I go on to pursue my first academic position in San Diego and my second in Fredericksburg.
I go by “Shawn.”
I raise a family in Richmond.
I go by “Shawn.”
Time unspools.
I go by “Shawn.”
Oh, but there is something missing in my life.
I’ve known it.
I’ve known it for years.
That something is football.
So, I send an email to George Bland, the head football coach at Douglass Freeman High School, looking to get involved. We meet. I introduce myself as “Shawn.”
I tell him that I am committed. I tell him that I will work for free.
He welcomes me onto the coaching staff.
I go by “Shawn.”
I attend spring weight training.
I go by “Shawn.”
I attend summer installs.
I go by “Shawn.”
“Shawn” carries me into the second week of two-a-days. I’m exhausted. Standing on turf for five hours a day in the late-August sun is taking its toll on this 51-year-old body. I’m taking four to five Advil a day and icing my knees at night. I step into the coach’s office in between practices to get some air conditioning. Another coach on staff (Coach Henshaw) has the same idea.
“Hey” I say nonchalantly.
“Hey, Hump!” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“Hump” he says.
“How did you know that was my nickname?” I ask.
“It fits” he says.
Nicknames tell you “You’re home.”
+++++
Thanks. – shawn
If you like this post, you may also enjoy these other Football Inspired posts:
- The Letter
- More Than 100 Yards of Turf
- Get Your Head in the Game
- Positive Thinking (Necessary but not Sufficient)
- The Gridiron Teaching Academy
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