Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

It is not the beginning, nor is it the end. But it is *a** beginning...*

Cold

The first thing I was aware of upon leaving the relative warmth of my beat-up Ford F-150 was the biting cold of a very unseasonal cold front. Cold fronts in December might not be that uncommon in other parts of the states, but Texas? Cold Front? Really? Then I remembered the old adage, true in Alvord, true in College Station. If it ain't summer, and you don't like the weather in Texas, stick around. It'll change.

   I limped my way into the building and it's central heating system, seeking the classroom that would become my prison for the next wintermester. HIST 101-European Settlements in North America to Reconstruction. A.K.A. The American Revolution, and the Civil War-The class. Common knowledge you'd learned since 3rd grade, going more and more in depth, until finally you could take the exam in your sleep, with the knowledge so ingrained into the very whorls of your brain, that it is simply second nature. In other words, a waste of time. At least it'd be an easy A, and great for the scholarship.

Perhaps I should explain. My name is Jordan F. Holmes, if it do please you. And if it don't, I'm not about to apologize for having a mother who named me before she passed. Raised in a small town, right about 600 people when I was born. It's grown a bit since then, but Alvord ain't changed one whit since I left, and I doubt it ever will change much. I was raised by my deaf father, as an only child. Well, not exactly raised by Dad. More like raised by my Gramma, in spite of my hard-drinking, alcoholic Grandpa, not to mention my rarely-there, workaholic Dad. Most of my life they've lived just down the street from me, and so she looked after me growing up. She was a Rancher's wife, once, and she'd cook breakfast for the men-folk before they headed out to the fields to take care of the livestock. She still rose early, still ruled the kitchen with an iron fist, and still knew how to teach a boy how to be a gentleman.

I grew up, and grew up big. Not fat, but tall. I was really lanky in school, and awkward, until Dad pressured me into football. "Be good for you, boy! Help you learn discipline! Help tire you out!" You see, I have ADHD. It's not an excuse for me, if anything it's an advantage. My brain works in unconventional ways, and I learn at a much more rapid rate as opposed to my peers... But I had no real social know-how, and I was a problem in class due to being constantly active. Dad enrolled me in peewee. Coaches saw my size, and thought that I'd be great on the O-Line. I asked if I'd get to tackle people. They immediately switched me to defense.

So I played Pop Warner, made friends, learned how to be a normal kid, and the behavior problems stopped. My grades skyrocketed, from C's to A's, because I wasn't constantly twitching and misbehaving in class. Even when I went into middle school, and I stopped growing briefly, I kept playing. My friends went to play for their own schools, and I suited up for the Bulldogs. My sudden lapse in growth left me as too small for lineman, so I moved to Linebacker. Coach R simply said this to me; "Boy, I've seen you play. You know how to read the play, you know how to chase the ball, and you can hit like a Mack Truck. Time to fill out those lanky arms of yours, and put some muscle on." The day that I was introduced to free weights changed -EVERYTHING- for me. I put on weight. I started gaining muscle. LOTS of muscle. Enough to where the coaches started monitoring my growth rate, and noticed that I was getting taller again. They slowed me down on the weights, and started making me run sprints. Sideline to sideline, back and forth, every whistle blow. I got cardio, that's for certain. I started jogging every morning with weights on, and kept up conditioning. By the end of middle school, I could play a full 4 quarters, every down on defense, and kickoff coverage.

High School came, and I entered a 5'8 freshman, and was backup MLB for the 2A Alvord Bulldog Varsity Football Team. The starter, D.J, then promptly flunked a drug test before the season started, and I proceeded to get my face smashed in for the entire season. We missed the playoffs by one game, and at least 2 of the losses were directly my fault, because I hadn't learned how to make a trap-block miss. I remember crying at the end, as the score read Bowie 17-Alvord 14. I hit the weights hard that offseason. Harder than I had since Middle School. I turned 16 and started to grow again, as my body filled out even more. I hit harder, moved faster, and played smarter as we went to the playoffs, only to lose to Kyle in the Quarter-Finals. Junior year, I maintained my weight, and started organizing team exercises in the offseason, leading the team to select me as one of the Defensive Captains. I maintained my A average throughout my junior year, and started getting calls from Louisiana Tech, Auburn, and other universities, but no visits came my way. It probably had something to do with being part of a 2A school... Maybe if I were part of the 4A, or 5A schools, they'd be forced to pay attention. I knew I could start for anyone in the state, no question... But I lived in Alvord. I decided to make do with what I had. I had worked my body to near-Adonis levels, stood 6'3 as a senior, and weighed 235. Raw Athleticism, along with my ownership of my defense -which held everyone it played to under 21- and my know-how would carry me through. I knew it would. It had to. And if it didn't, I could always just apply anywhere in the State. I had a 102.3 GPA average, thanks to AP courses giving those extra 10 points. I would have guaranteed acceptance, and academic scholarships galore. There, I thought, I could just walk-on and prove I belonged. Or at least, I would've... But one warm August afternoon in Texas, an unfamiliar car pulled up next to my '83 GMC Pickup. Faded white paintjob, in case you must know.

A stranger stepped out of this strange car, a relatively new-looking Chevy Silverado. Late 40's, early 50's, very healthy for his age. Business briefcase, Maroon Polo, dark Khakis, and a visor bearing an A&M logo on it. Barely starting to recede hairline. He looked like a healthy Bernie Mac, really. I stepped down from my porch, and greeted him, and asked how I could help him. What he said next took my breath away. "Yes, Jordan, I know who you are. I'm Kevin Sumlin, head coach of the Texas A&M Aggies, and I want you to be playing for us come this fall. In fact, I want you to come to play ball with us so bad, I want to give you a full athletic scholarship, help you receive any academic scholarships you're eligible for, and I'm willing to do it all in person, today. Have you applied yet?"

*Gulp* "Uh-...Uhm... No sir, I haven't yet..."

"Little bit of a late start, isn't it? Oh well, no matter. I have all the paperwork here with me."-Here he gestured to the briefcase in his left hand- "Would it be alright if I came inside?"

I applied that night, and signed paperwork after paperwork. We found out that my academic scholarships alone would guarantee me a full ride, but decided to save those for later, using up the athletic scholarships, and some supplementary academic achievement grants to take care of room, board, and supply expenses. I gave him my commit that night. I mean, Why not? Johnny Manziel was still helming the offense for his Junior Year, and they were a force to be reckoned with in the toughest conference in college football-The SEC. I was sold. A&M it was. But first, I had to get through my Senior Year, and one more year to play High School Football. I couldn't be happier.

The season passed in a blur for me, as did the school year. I heard from a friend that I cracked the top 300 High School Recruits on ESPN. I scoffed... I wasn't in the top 5, so why should I pay attention to people who didn't know what they were dealing with? I was one of the best. I knew it. Dad knew it. Grandpa admitted it, grudgingly, and Gramma told everyone who'd listen how I'd take the Bulldogs to the Finals this year; Most importantly though, Coach Sumlin knew it, and I was going to prove him right.

Our defense was a machine, shutting down offense after offense. I don't even know how many games ended with a goose egg on their end of the score board, but I didn't care. One play at a time, one win at a time, we'd go to State this time. We'd go to the Dallas Cowboys stadium in Arlington -known 'round these parts as "Jerryworld *ptooeh*"- and we'd show everyone that we were the toughest, meanest Dawgs in the fight. And to the surprise of absolutely nobody, we went undefeated throughout the season, cruised through our division, advanced easily through the regionals, and the quarterlies. Finally, we got to the State Tourney, and strode on that field like it was just another day. We owned this turf, and we'd show everyone else that we did-and punish them for stepping on it.

Our first match I didn't even play the second half, we were blowing them out so bad. Our so-so offense finally stepped up, and hung 49 on them. With our smothering defense, 7 would've been enough. Quarter finals, we steamrolled through without a second thought-I was hungry for victory, and I could see the trophy now... Half as big as me, it would stand from the ground. There was no lifting that one, everyone said, but I would lift the damn thing. The day's play ended, and we'd finish our claim next week. I ghosted through classes, doing nothing but reading up on game film analysis, drawing up plays, and making notes. I'd show up, get counted present, and my mind would promptly clock out and go to football, while my iPod thrummed the sensuous and oh-so-rock'n'roll drum stylings of John Bonham, the Guitar Wizardry of Jimmy Page, the voice that invented Rock and Roll singers, Robert Plant, and the subtle-yet-powerful Bass lines of John Paul Jones. Yes, I listened to Led Zeppelin, non-stop for damn near a week. I love my Classic Rock.

We'd play the Semis on Monday, and we would play the Finals on Saturday, assuming we made it. I worked my defense to the bone, and did not let them think anything other than -KILL-CRUSH-DESTROY-WIN-KILL-CRUSH-DESTROY-WIN- The Countdown To Extinction album by Megadeth helped. The Bus rolled up, and we off-loaded. Not a word was said. We walked as one-stone silence. As we dressed, all you heard was the sounds of lockers, zippers, straps, pads rattling, and the sound of cleats. Coach R didn't say a word. No speech, no rah-rah, just a nod. He knew, just like we knew. The time for talk had passed. We stormed out onto that field, silent soldiers, mute golems of destruction. We moved as one, swarmed the ball, and rendered Bowie, our down-the-street rival, completely incapable of doing anything. The drive home was just as silent as the rest of theday.

I don't really remember much of Friday. I remember that we were loud as hell, going there, getting there, taking the field... It was like the strain of being so silent all day Monday, and even in practice leading up to this day finally broke, the tension snapped, and our emotion and energy flowed forth like a dam. We were the Dawgs, and we were hunting some Melissa Cardinals. Returning State Champs? We'd show them that they were Chumps. It'd be a good ol' fashioned Defensive battle, and we'd come out on top.

Or so I thought. Halftime, and we were down 14-7. All the touchdowns had been scored by the defense. It was -THAT- kind of day for our offense, and I was spewing fire in the locker-room at my boys.

"We play, EVERY DOWN! We force FUMBLES! We make INTERCEPTIONS! We don't just bat them down, we send them up in the air! This offense can't keep up with us, so we move faster! We get ballsy! Gamble! There's a championship trophy waiting for us in that Owner's box, and I aim to see we take it! GO DAWGS!"

GO DAWGS!

As Coach R wrapped up with the offense, I walked over to him, and waved him over.

"Coach, they're killing us on offense. We have to change this up somehow."

"You get bumped on the head too hard, son? Because you normally don't speak Captain Obvious at me."

"Yeah, I know, but I wanna shake it up. And I had an idea."

"Son, get to the point. You own that defense, and have for three years. You're why we're here. Whaddya want?"

"Put me in on kickoff return after the half. We're kicking to them, they won't notice the swap until I'm already on the field, and most of their special teams squad is on defense."

"And they don't know you for the terror that you are. I like it! You're the gunner, two spots off the left hash."

And so, Down 14-7, I stepped back on Kickoff. Now the "gunner" is normally someone who is extremely fast whose sole job is to get downfield as quickly as possible and decapitate the ball carrier. Well, force a fumble really, but you know what I mean. And that's exactly what happened. It's also the reason why I don't play football anymore.

I walked out on that field, and the sideline for Alvord, and our entire town erupted in the stands. *THOOMP* went the ball. ZOOM went the me. I may have been 6'3, and over 220, but I could run a 4.45-40. Only the fastest could get by me, and the blockers in my way were not faster, or stronger than me. I was crossing the 25 as the runner cradled the ball. I locked on, and he decided that I was the easiest way through the mess, to get a big gainer.

Have you ever seen what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? I sure don't, because I could not be stopped, and he definitely moved. The ball rolled loose, somehow behind me, and I whirled after it, my cleats kicking up little turf-turds in my wake, and I rocketed forward to the ball. I caught it off the second bounce, and used another Dawg's body to stop my momentum in the wrong direction. He flung me towards the end zone, and as visions of trophy-hoisting danced in my head, I suddenly found myself face to face with the turf, with my left leg feeling incredibly warm. I tried to stand up, and found myself unable to do so. My left leg didn't respond- I tried to force it to move, and then the turf did a barrel roll, my vision pulsed and blurred, and I vomited.

I know that I was in and out, because I remember hearing Gramma cry, seeing Dad argue with a doctor through an interpreter, and Grandpa holding Gramma for the first time in years. I didn't know where I was, entirely. Eventually I came to, though, and a digital readout said 3:13. I didn't know what day it was. Looking around, noticing that I was in a gown and not my own clothes, the immediate surroundings, and the smell of disinfectant, I deduced I was in a hospital I pushed the nurse button, and asked to know what I was in for. They said that I'd be free to direct any questions to my specialist, who would be making his rounds in the morning, so I rolled over and slept.

Morning came, I woke with the sun, and the Doctor/Specialist/Person-Who-Bears-Bad-News walked in.

"Well, how'd I manage to do it this time?"

"I seriously doubt you've done anything like this before, Mr. -Holmes, was it?- You tore your ACL and your MCL both, nearly all the way through. Both will require surgery, and your complete tear of your ACL...."

"Don't sugar-coat it doc, what am I looking at?"

"Best case scenario, you'll be able to walk unaided after about 6 months of rehab. You will never play anything that puts stress on your left knee again, unless you want to tear that ACL again."

Utter Silence.

Deafening.

I would've cried, but Grandpa was there, and he would've smacked me as hard as he could, then told me to grow a fuckin' pair. Grandma saw. Grandma saw everything. So she cried for me. Grandma always did.

The call to Coach Sumlin was probably the worst part. He already knew, but I told him anyway. He apologized, and hoped I'd understand that he had to take back the athletic scholarship. I said I did, and I still hoped to attend A&M as a member of the student body in the fall, but I just needed to know if I'd make it in. He said that he had some paperwork to send my way, and he'd send an assistant. Imagine my surprise two days later, when Johnny Manziel, Living A&M Legend came in my door, and handed me some envelopes was so overwhelming that I tried to get up-and almost threw up.

Several fervent apologies and one sheepish introduction later, He handed me some packets. It contained my acceptance letter to A&M, my FULL ACADEMIC SCHOLARSHIP (Reliant upon my maintaining of a 3.25 and 14 hours a semester) and a stipend for room, board, and supplies. I was going to be an Aggie after all...

I went to the Fresh Week, learned the yells, and learned the lore. I went to class that fall semester, and aced my courses. I drove my beat-up truck down to College Station, moved into a small apartment, and moved in my Bose system, my Record Player, and all my Vinyl Records, and settled into life there. Went home for Christmas, but not Thanksgiving. Didn't really struggle my Spring semseter, and really breezed through it. But I didn't have a major. I limped around campus, as the leg hadn't healed fully yet, and hoped to finish out rehab over the summer when I went home.

Speaking of home, I went home in the summer, and found a cute girl that was always soft on me in High School... She was still soft on me, and hadn't forgotten how good I had looked-and still looked, thanks to careful diet and exercise- in a pair of Wranglers and a Stetson. She invited me out to dinner, and a picnic under the stars. And just when she was showing me just how she earned that blue ribbon in horse-riding, her dad realized a few things.

1. His daughter was not in the house.

2. That Truck out there in his field was not his, nor was it his family's.

3. That was his daughter out there in the bed of that truck.

4. Most importantly... She was not alone....

One shotgun round later, I was hightailing it out of there, and zigging and zagging the whole way home. A call to her tomorrow revealed that her dad had only loaded rocksalt rounds... But managed to nail his stallion in the flank, and sent him on a rampage, breaking just about everything he could-including himself...

That stuck in my brain, until I realized... I could always become a Farm Vet. I'd been around farm animals my whole life, and I wasn't scared of blood, guts or anything else. I'd had to deliver a calf more than once. I could do that! And as the new year rolled around, I resolved to make the most of my newfound major.

Yes, I know it's a bit of a story just to get to a history class, but you asked to know everything, and I have to start at the beginning for any of this to make sense. Besides, down here in the south, we gots a saying... A good story isn't in the ending, it's in the telling...