To Run or to Pass?

It is that time of year when thoughts turn to aspirations on the gridiron. I live on the north shore of Lake Ontario, so in some respects college football is on a much smaller scale here. There are no television revenues to speak of, no paid college players, smaller stadiums and so on.

Last year, my best friend and I were doing the hour and a quarter drive to our alma mater to watch the season-ending game, and he turned the radio up. It turns out he had texted a phone-in radio show. "This message is from Dr. B," the announcer began. "Many thousands of people are attending American college football games in huge stadiums today. I am driving with my friend, whom I've known since Grade 3, to a game that will have just a few thousand spectators. But for me the intensity is just as great."

"Good for you, Dr. B," the announcer said, "and friends since Grade 3!"

It is true, and I am sure you will say that I am fortunatissimo in that my best friend is so longstanding.

Our team is coached by the redoubtable 'Marshall,' who has coached them to many division championships, losing only in the Vanier Cup to the dreaded team from Laval University.

This game was the division championship between our team (Western) and Laurier, whose coach had worked under Marshall, and who therefore knew our playbook. Neither of us played college football. My friend was a track star, speedy hockey player, and so on. I had and still have the body type to be an offensive guard, but I did not play in high school or college because I was protecting my fingers. I am a pianist, and that excuse did not go over well in the world of adolescent masculinity, but I stuck to it. So the pianist and the medical doctor went to the football game.

I need to remind readers that there are only three downs in Canadian football, and that circumstance encourages more passing that we see in the U.S. Marshall, as my friend observed, likes to establish the running game before his teams start passing. And this is where the dramatic tension of my story begins.

We took seats four rows behind the Western coaches. Western started out with a running play, and fumbled the ball. Laurier scored a touchdown. After the kickoff Western made two more running plays, coming well short of the ten yards they needed. They punted, and after the turnover there was another Laurier touchdown.

Things went from bad to worse on the scoreboard and my friend and I could no longer contain ourselves. We stood on the bleachers, cupped our hands, and both yelled, "Marshall! Throw the ball!" The coach looked around to see who was yelling, but took no notice, calling running play after running play as the game slipped away.

My friend and I had urgent discussions. I was the snarkier, "Well, if the Laurier coach knows our playbook, shouldn't we try some new plays?" I asked.

"Marshall may be saving some of those plays for the Vanier Cup and Laval," my friend suggested.

"Well what makes him think we will make it to the Vanier Cup?" I asked testily.

My friend stood up again, "Marshall, use your imagination!"

"Good one!" I enthused. You see what I mean, would an American college football fan dare to speak that way to a highly remunerated football coach? I think you know the answer. But the plays remained the same.

My friend took out his phone and started typing. I thought he might be checking with his answering service. He finished and said, "There!"

"There, what?" I asked. He explained that he had messaged Marshall, and he read it to me.

"Marshall, Laurier player number 32 is breaking up every one of your plays. They know your playbook. Use your imagination, and for God's sake THROW THE BALL! Dr. B."

Almost immediately his phone beeped. He read the message:

"Dr, B., do not message Coach Marshall. He is very busy!"

My friend replied to that message immediately. "I will message Coach Marshall every time it occurs to me to do so!"

Alas our efforts were in vain, and Western's hopes for the division championship died right there, on that field, on that day. Our lives made a little less sense.

I told the story to my granddaughter, who said, "The two of you are like a pair of angry grandpas." I supposed that was true.

But flash forward to yesterday, Western's first home game of the 2025 season. We arrived early, so we stood in front of the locker room to watch our team make its entrance. Purple and White are the Western colors (Go, Purple! Go White! Purple and White...). The moment came and a pipe belched out purple smoke as the players took the field.

"It smells like sulphur," my friend observed. It's like smoke from a steel mill."

And it was, but the young men were exuberant, and after them came the staff: trainers, the doctor, and at the last, Coach Marshall himself, smiling for the first time that I had seen, and, I thought, maybe even with a twinkle in his eye. Neither my friend nor I are shy. He said, "Coach, I am Dr. B."

Did Marshall's grin just broaden? Did the twinkle in his eye twinkle a bit more brightly? Hmmn.

After the national anthem, we took our seats. Western received the kickoff and ran it deep into their opponents' zone. We awaited the first Western offensive scrimmage. It was a passing play and our team scored a touchdown. Both of us jumped up and down yelling! Wow! Marshall!

And the game got better and better. Passing play after passing play succeeded, and the scoreboard grew fat with seven Western touchdowns. At half time we went to the most enertaining corner of the field. The Western cheerleaders did their complicated aerial wheel display. The pep band, complete with Flugel horn, entertained us. And the mascot, a beautiful horse (the team is the Western Mustangs) came up and allowed some of us to pet its nose.

In the second half the opponents played well, but the combined running and passing continued to rack up the score for our side. It was a famous victory.

And what is the moral of this story? Mix passing and rushing? No. Yell at the coach? I think not. Do everything to keep your best friend? Absolutely!