Working on the Chain Gang

Volunteer sideline duty at a high school football game can take the measure of a man …

Fall 2021 brings a fresh season of high school football in Georgia. Okay, so it’s really only August and fall won’t be here for another 4 weeks. And it’s 86 degrees at kickoff time, made more challenging with that 90% humidity. Ahhh, the rites of autumn in America. Not exactly that pastoral picture of rolling golden hills with hay bales and fall foliage called to mind by the the phrase “football weather”. I’ve been told that the school year begins in early August  because that start date is an unavoidable by-product of the realization that standardized test scores are higher when students are able to complete a full semester before Holiday break (formerly known as Christmas break). Maybe so. Maybe not. Whatever the reason, our football team’s  season will be half complete by September 21.

This year’s first home game in our town offered a twist. I volunteered to work the sidelines with the chain gang. This would not be my first time, but it was the first time in a long time. Our Rotary Club began providing this support work decades ago as a service project to our county’s only high school. It’s certainly a bit different than helping at the food bank and other volunteer projects, but it is indeed a needed service and our Rotary club members–especially those of us who are high school football has-beens– get enjoyment from the task.

Typically there are four members of the chain gang. Two people hold the poles attached to the chain, marking the exact 10 yard distance needed to get a first down. Another member holds the down marker, numbering 1 through 4 . The fourth person marks ball placement on the chain after each first down. On this night we had the luxury of a fifth member, to act as a sub if needed. Of our five, two had no prior experience. Accordingly, part of my job was to help orient the new guys. Despite my good intentions, I did not excel in that role. Very basic questions were put to me, like ” How far back from the sidelines do we stand?” And even, “How do you put on this orange vest?” My answers were earnest, but not entirely accurate. And soon I had a flashback to a realization I had first noticed long ago while helping my daughter with her high school physics homework. Namely, if you give incorrect answers more than a time or two, the students begin to seek help elsewhere. Which is probably best.

I did accurately recall the pregame protocol which I passed along to my new chain-mates. Prior to the kickoff, the school color guard will march out to midfield to present the colors, but a bigger flag on a tall flagpole in the far corner of the field is where we will fix our gaze while the national anthem is played. The Public Address announcer in the press box will then introduce us to the crowd, a moment we should briefly acknowledge. And of course, we are reminded that we should avoid any show of bias in the outcome of the game–in other words, no cheering for the home team. And last, one member of the offucial referee group will make our acquaintance, giving us the basics of our task –while sizing up our level of experience and attentiveness.

We really lucked out on that last part. Our supervising referee, Quincy, stepped forward and introduced himself. He was pleasantly thorough and organized with his instructions, and he seemed confident in our ability to handle the task. He explained to the two guys holding the chain that they would need to “flip” or reverse the chain at the end of the first and third quarters, when the two teams switch sides of the field. And he told me that the plastic rectangular down marker I would be holding was called “the box” and that as the man holding the box, I was to follow him wherever he went–but only after his signal. He repeated that last part. Only AFTER his signal. It seemed important. It was important.

On behalf of the gang, I joked with Quincy that if circumstances so dictated, we would love to be involved in a critical measurement at some point during the game. He answered with a sly grin saying, “I don’t think they do that anymore.” Huh? Apparently it is now policy that the field judge referee marks the ball down right on an actual marked stripe at the end of every single play. This new phenomenon, whereby the ball somehow never comes to rest between yard marks at the end of the play, obviously makes the need for an occasional measurement much less likely. Like never. That in turn, removes some of the intrigue from the chain gang’s job. But I suppose it also decreases the likelihood of disputes based on mischief or malfeasance.

With that mysterious tidbit of information given by Quincy, the opening kickoff was upon us– and instantly we were off the pace, not having anticipated that the receiving team would run the ball all the way back down near the home team’s 30 yard line. As we all scurried down the sideline, I told the new guys that the next play couldn’t start until we had properly set “the sticks”. That was another tip that turned out to be less than 100% true . The ball was set and snapped even as we were still setting our new positions . But if anyone noticed, they did not speak up. And it did not really matter either, because after only two more quick snaps, less than a minute into the game, the visitors scored their first touchdown of the night (there would be many more). The ball was then placed at the 3 yard-line for the extra-point try. The chain holders are not involved in this play, so I reminded them to lay their chains flat on the ground to avoid possible injuries if the ensuing play should suddenly come our way. On the other hand, the down marker or “box” that I was holding was definitely involved. As I learned from Quincy, the box is used to mark the exact site the ball is placed down for the extra-point. By this time in the game,, Quincy had called for the “box” repeatedly– and soon enough he began simply to refer to me personally as Box , calling out my new nickname loudly and slightly frantically while waving his arm off to his side as he kept his eyes locked straight ahead on the field of play.

And so it was that I spent most of the game sprinting along the sideline after each play , then stopping and standing right behind him, peering over his shoulder and sharing his view directly down the line of scrimmage. All during the game he offered bits of running commentary to me. Some remarks were important and some whimsical, but all were made while he kept his eyes looking directly ahead. It finally dawned on me that his attention was largely fixed on the older referee out on the field. This man had a dignified look and he stood out as the only referee wearing a white cap. In cowboy movies, of course, the white hat means “good guy”. In a football setting, the white hat means “Head Referee”– in other words, the man whose word is Law, who is in charge of the whole shooting match– the players, the entire referee crew including Quincy, and us.

I was amazed that despite having his eyes constantly forward, Quincy was able to somehow perceive a few of my oversights, even though I was directly behind him.

“Box!” he’d say in a hoarse whisper. “BOX! ..BOX!! It’s THIRD down!”

I looked up meekly at the sign I was holding to confirm that I had not yet switched my sign from second down, and I then would quickly make the correction. And I would vow to myself to not let that happen again, and it didn’t…. until the next time it did. Fortunately for me (but not for the home team), the game was not close, so these little errors had no untoward effect on a play or the game. The deficit was 20-0 at halftime, and could have been far greater, if not for some curious play-calling by the visitors’ head coach. I began to wonder if he might now be using this game as a glorified practice of sorts. And it was while I was busy daydreaming about his strategy that I inadvertently violated Quincy’s earlier strict instruction. Immediately following yet another long play, I hurried down the sideline toward the new line of scrimmage. Seeing this, Quincy waved me back, ” Not yet, Box! Not yet! Go back! There’s a penalty flag!” I hurried back to my original site (approximately) with a new understanding of why I was instructed to hold my place until Quincy beckoned me forward. Namely, if the penalty was to be assessed from the previous spot, it would be helpful (that is to say, vital) to know exactly where the previous spot actually was. And so I felt great relief when that penalty was declined, making insignificant the exact location of the prior spot I was supposed to have kept marked. Once Quincy then cleared me for takeoff, I hurried back down to my usual station, directly behind him as he straddled the 15 yard-line, his eyes forward as always.  “Box! It’s FIRST down, Box!”, he croaked at me. Looking up, I see that ONCE AGAIN I had left the number unturned. As I fixed that, I felt compelled to ask him, “How can you see that? You’re looking straight ahead.” He responded only by tapping the earpiece in his right ear, letting me know that the gentlemen in the press box all the way across the field are alerting him to my miscue(s). That realization was humbling in a more profound way. Not only were my goofs known to Quincy, but the press box members and the crowd were aware too. I knew that intuitively, but the earpiece aspect brought that fact home to me in a more strident fashion. And to make things a bit worse, at about that same time Mr. White Cap/Head Ref leaned in from midfield to say something to Quincy. While I could not hear exactly what he said, I did hear Quincy’s immediate reply– “you see what I’m working with here”.

I don’t know that he was necessarily referring to us, or to me alone or none of the above. But the timing sure seemed suggestive . Whatever that topic was about, the lopsided game lurched along as the visitors steadily added to their lead. Since we were stationed on the visitors’ sideline, there was a happy vibe in our midst. With their lead continuing to grow, the kids from out-of-town were having a fine time. Players were making big plays and lots of backups were getting some serious playing time. That light mood pervaded their entire staff. The water carriers offered us cold water from their stash, and a ball boy accommodated my impulsive request for a practice ball to toss a few times with my chain gang mates during the odd timeout.

With all that covered, I sought a little more background from Quincy himself. He’d been refereeing now for seven years, he said. He wanted to keep going for a few more years but he confided that his real goal was to work his way up to Division II, at the college level. It was somehow reassuring to me that our sideline savant in fact harbored higher ambitions.

Not long after the home team finally scored, the game was over. The visitors held forth with a 54-7 final tally. Football aside, I had rallied a bit in my personal performance in the second half with a much cleaner body of work. Amidst the departing players, their support staff and the band members, I and my fellow chain gangers slowly made our way toward the fieldhouse with our equipment and orange vests in tow. Our newest members, Bill and David, were now officially veterans of the chain gang. My grade of my own ” box” work this night would have been “C minus/ needs improvement”–albeit with a strong finish. Nonetheless, now that we were done, it was pushing 10 pm on this Friday night. My workday had started at 0530 and it was time to head home.

As we left the field, we exchanged the usual pleasantries. A group of Rotary volunteers had made a small contribution to a notable public event. That was satisfying. And then, just as we all were parting ways, Quincy offered one last comment. This one made my night. With his signature smile and a hearty fist bump he said to me, “Nice job, Box!” Hmmm. He certainly seemed sincere. Clearly he was a generous grader. Either way, I’ll take it. This chain gang thing, it’s really a pretty good gig.

When’s the next home game?

Patrick Conarro

RamblinSports