The Astroturf Uncertainty Principle

It’s like walking on concrete Velcro. This sensation running up from my feet through my legs, to my brain, and circling back down again toward my knees. It’s solid rock, thinly disguised by a layer of soft rubber. Sailors talk about gaining their “sea-legs,” when their bodies adjust to the ever moving ocean surface supporting the hulls of their ships. I imagine it must be something similar to what football players do when they adjust to the unnatural feeling of Astroturf beneath their feet. There’s a ‘give’ to artificial turf. It gives, like a forest floor or the thick carpet of a hotel hallway. It fools you. As you step off the track and onto the sideline your legs think, “I’ve felt this before.” But as soon as you begin to move you realize Astroturf is unlike any surface you’ve ever walked on.

As I step onto the turf of Bellingham’s Civic Field on a chill October evening, I feel it again. My feet recognize the feeling, the left one saying “Yes. This is where we belong.” The right one crying out for caution, “This is dangerous ground.” I quickly push the foreboding sensation from my mind. I walk toward the center of the field and stand on the 50 yard line. It’s 4:30 and I’m two hours early. I’m alone in the slate grey stadium, between two sets of bleachers. Behind one set stand the Cascade Mountains. Behind the other sits the Pacific Ocean. The sun goes down over Bellingham Bay to my right. Standing here at twilight, it feels as if I’m straddling the terminus between night and day. My right foot stands in daylight, my left in the fast approaching darkness. The night is good. Night means the banks of overhead lights must be turned on. I turn and face the night. I imagine I can see over the top of the bleachers and watch as the blackness stampedes over the mountains and down toward the ocean, chasing the sun below the water. That’s better. The football field is a stage, bathed in artificial light, the audience surrounded by darkness as the players act out their drama.

It’s two hours later and this stage is set. The audience sits in their seats, waiting intently for the first act to begin. The players are in full costume. Battle armor, war-paint, tribal colors. This is their combat, this is their theater, this is their game, this is football. I am not among them. Tonight I stand on the sidelines, feeling the same turf beneath my feet, sharing the stage in some small way. But my role is not that of hero or villain. Tonight I instruct, console, critique, strategize and, with any luck, inspire. But I don’t play. My legs remember how. My muscle memory is prompted by the turf. That feeling of solid squishiness brings back the games I played in stadiums just like this one. I remember the sensation of running, of hitting, of moving through the dance. One of a cast of 22 players, shifting and reacting to the choreography of the game. Then I remember the last time I played.

It’s an October night, just like this one, the stadium, the crowd, the players, the turf, it’s all the same. It’s me that’s different. On this night, I’m the one wearing the armor, I’m the one preparing for combat. And now I’m flying across the field, flinging my enemies to the ground as my shoulders collide with theirs. Brutally dispatching my feeble opponents. I’m in complete command. I’m unstoppable, impenetrable. Then it happens. It’s a routine play. A simple punt return. The ball is kicked and I run back until I see my teammate field it. I turn and charge forward, looking for a would-be tackler to maim or kill. In front of me, a player falls to the ground. Planting with my left foot, I leap through the air, sailing over my downed comrade. My right foot comes down first. It sticks in that rock hard cushion. For an instant it’s my only contact with the ground. It’s unstable and artificial, and it’s all I have. In that same instant, one of the mere mortals I was planning on mercilessly destroying collides with me high on my left shoulder. His impact twists my upper body around, but my right foot is still stuck where it landed on the turf. My body pivots on my knee joint, ripping the anterior cruciate ligament, the finger thin string of fibers holding the two parts of my leg in place, and partially tearing the medial meniscus, a layer of cartilage which prevents my femur from rubbing directly against my fibula. The pain is immediate and blinding. My whole world goes white. I can’t see. I’m told later by my surgeon that what I felt was not my actual injuries, but the bones cracking together in the joint as they twisted. As soon as I’m able to think, my first thought is a simple truth, “You’ll never play again, Keith.” I know this like I know my own name, yet it will be some time before I’ll accept it. I wasn’t done playing. It couldn’t end like this. I had to do something to stay involved in the game. So I took a job as an assistant coach at a junior high school. For three years I coached, but only reluctantly. For three years, every time I stepped out on the turf, I was a player, coaching only because I could no longer play.

It’s half time. We’re losing by three touchdowns. I want to be Patton, I want to be Lee. I want to have the words which will cause my players to fight their way back into the game, back toward victory. But everything I say is just one more cliché they’ve already heard. “Let’s keep our heads up!” “We can still win this!” “Where’s our fight!?” “We’re better than these guys!” It’s all true, but who am I kidding? I’m no Knute Rockne. These kids won’t respond to me. We run back onto the field, but it’s the same team that left it 15 minutes ago. The same team, discouraged and tired, and the same coach, disheartened with his inability to affect his player’s attitudes. “We’re all the same,” I realize, “and the result will be the same as well.” Our opponents open the second half with a long drive. They move the ball from their 20 yard line, 60 yards downfield to our 20 yard line. “Here we go” I think, “They’re going to score again.” And then I see Robert.

Robert’s a scrawny little kid from a broken home. He’s been kicked out of two other schools already. When he first joined the team we were warned about his behavior. But Robert was nothing like what we were told to expect. A naturally gifted athlete, Robert quickly proved he could also be one of the hardest workers on the team. Our concerns about keeping him on the team proved to be unfounded. Robert loved football and would do whatever it took to stay on the team, even if that meant finishing his homework. His grades steadily rose and his teachers reported back, saying they had seen a marked improvement in his attitude and conduct. He also made friends with his teammates and earned their respect with his work ethic.

Tonight, as the opposing quarterback drops back to cap his team’s drive with a touchdown pass, I realize that Robert has never heard any of the clichés I just finished spouting mechanically in the locker room. No one has ever told him not to give up, and he believed me when I told him we could still win. He reads the quarterback’s eyes and spies the intended receiver. From his Free Safety position three yards deep in the end zone, he finds his opportunity. Planting his left foot into the turf, it sticks, and like a piston driving downward in an engine, it fires him forward toward his target. The quarterback lets the ball fly. Robert is already halfway there. The ball sails through the air, and in one fluid motion Robert leaps to meet it, lands lightly, then cuts hard to his left. The turf gives him the traction he needs to make such an astonishing change of direction. He darts forward, bouncing off tacklers like a pinball off bumpers until finally being forced out of bounds. His teammates can’t believe what they’ve just seen. Neither can I. Our sideline erupts. This was all the other players needed. One of their teammates to show them there was still a reason to keep playing. This was all I needed. One of my players to believe because I told him to believe. Before my eyes, I see my team change. They fight. They try. They believe. They lose by 3 points.

Now doubt re-enters my mind. How do I explain to these boys, that I don’t care whether they won or lost? That the reward they’ve earned tonight is not victory on the scoreboard, but victory in life? I don’t have to. They already know. The locker room after the game is loud and happy. My players joke and laugh. Over in the corner, a linebacker is using his hands to explain to a running back and a wide-out how he made a particular play. Someone has brought in a case of Cokes and a few guys use the carbonation to spray each other down like their heroes on TV. My players already understand that they have won, simply by not giving up. They’ve won because the willingness to continue fighting even after a victory seems impossible is a skill they can use well beyond the football field. All my players understand this. All but Robert. He sits by his locker, elbows on knees, quietly sobbing into his hands. I see his skinny chest tremor with the effort of keeping his anguish contained.

“Robert.” He doesn’t look up.

“Robert, look at me.” His head lolls to the side and he finds me out of the corner of his eye.

“Robert you’re my Player of the Game.” Once again, despite their truth, my own words ring hollow in my ears. Yet once again, Robert believes them. His face brightens, just a bit.

“Thanks Coach.” He says, wiping away the tears that continue to roll from his eyes.

It’s an hour later and the players have all gone home, on the bus or with their parents. Once again, I stand alone in the middle of the field. This time the lights are off and it’s dark all around. The turf is still there. That feeling. That sensation. Concrete Velcro.

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Note: This article is very closely based on real events and real people. Some of the events may be condensed and certain details (the score of the game for example) may be incorrect as everything was written simply as I remembered it. As far as I know there was no record of the game to which I could refer. Names have not been changed. Robert is a real person. His actions on the night of the game are as accurately described as I could make them, but my knowledge of his life before I met him and away from the football field should be considered second hand at best.