The Pride of St. Louis

THE PRIDE OF ST. LOUIS

from the book “The Pride of Park Avenue” by Toriano Porter

When I first saw the 2005 schedule for the St. Louis Bulldogs, the semipro football team I’ve been a member of since 1999, I was stoked. After last season’s horrifying playoff lost to the Springfield Rifles (the game was called with eight minutes to go in the 4th quarter with the Rifles ahead 40 something to 8; a bench clearing brawl prompted the cancellation) I swore I was done playing football.

After all, the prospects of receiving a professional tryout from the various pay for play leagues around the country were becoming dimmer as time passed.

The schedule, which I went online to peruse back in April, featured games against teams in Memphis, Chicago, Kansas City, Lincoln, Nebraska and the city that pique my interest the most, Dallas, Texas.

I’d had fond memories of Dallas. On top of those memories, an ex college roommate from Tulsa, Oklahoma, Marcus Carliss, had relocated to Dallas and I hadn’t seen him in a few years. I had gotten his number from a mutual friend in Kansas City, touching basis with him every so often to talk about life situations and old memories living in Warrensburg, Missouri, home of the Central Missouri State Fighting Mules.

“What’s up dirrty?” I spoke into the cell phone, referring to Marcus. “What’s cracking wit’cha’?”

“TeePee,” Marcus responded with vigor, “what’s up homie, what’s going on?”

“Aw man, nothing,” I prolonged, “jus’ callin’ to let you know I’ma be in yo’ town June 11th.”

“Oh word,” Marcus said, “for what? You still ballin’?”

“Yes sir,” I proudly replied, “still looking to get that ring, dirrty.”

Marcus just laughed. He knew that the crew of brothers we linked up with as CMSU footballers always wanted some sort of championship ring to take with us to our football graves. We never got one at CMSU. Marcus, however, did.

After transferring from CMSU in the fall of 1995, he was part of a National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics national football championship at Northeastern Oklahoma State University in Tahlequah, Oklahoma.

The luck of the draw is what we called it.

“T.P., man you crazy,” he said. “How old are you now?”

“Thirrty one, dirrty, but I tell errybody I’m thirrty for life,” I responded with a country grammar slur.

“There you go putting them extra r’s in everything,” Marcus chided, “sounding like an outtake from a Nelly video.”

Marcus and I had a history of making fun of each other’s dialect.

He was born and raised in Los Angeles, moved to Tulsa as a teenager and relocated to his present digs in Dallas.

 “What I tell you ‘bout how we live up herre dirrty?” I joined the verbal confl ict. “Ain’t nuthin’ country ‘bout my city, cuzz. We gangsta gutta up herre.”

“Whatever,” Marcus continued the jostling, “ya’ll still ain’t LA. You want to talk about gangsta? Now, LA is gangsta.”

 “LA?” I countered, “LA? Man, you ain’t lived in Cali in umpteen years. What’chu talkin’ ‘bout LA?”

“That’s alright though,” Marcus stood firm, “LA’s in my heart. In my blood. I’m always LA.”

“Dude, you are from Tulsa, Oklahoma,” I teased.

“It’s all good, though, T.P.,” Marcus said in fun, “where ya’ll playing at and at what time?”

“Man, I’ on know yet,” I explained, “but when I find out, I’ma call you and give you the heads up.”

“Alright,” Marcus said, “Cool. Just hit me up and let me know the deal.”

“No doubt,” I said.

“Alright, peace,” he concluded.

“One luv,” I wrapped up. “Holla at’chu ina minute.”

**********

The trip to Texas to take on the Dallas Diesel in a semipro football game had all the makings of a bonding outing for the St. Louis Bulldogs.

St. Louis’ winningest minor league football team ever had struggled with their early preseason games in 2005, losing the first three to opponents deemed very mediocre by Bulldog standards.

The team was in the midst of a rebuilding process, having lost key members from the previous year’s 8-4 club, including the star quarterback, running back, and wide receiver.

The dwindling out of players and coaches caused a ripple effect for St. Louis, leaving them in a rebuilding stage and struggling to stay competitive in a fledging semipro league.

Feeling a lack of cohesion on the part of the 2005 squad, Bulldog coach Greg Moore reserved a charter bus for the 12-hour ride to Dallas. The plan was to meet Friday, June 10 at 11:00 PM in the North Oaks Shopping Plaza, a local strip mall with retail stores and a bowling alley, and leave for the trip at midnight.

St. Louis would then arrive to its’ destination by noon Saturday and have a few hours to eat a pre-game meal and maybe watch a movie at a local theater in Dallas. In typical St. Louis fashion, most of the team’s players didn’t arrive until well after midnight and Moore was peeved.

“Listen up guys,” Moore ordered as players milled around the parking lot for a team meeting prior to boarding. The chief of Northwoods’ (MO) police department, Moore was used to giving orders.

What ticked him off were guys not following the procedure he’d laid out for them.

“Some of you don’t know what it means to be a St. Louis Bulldog,” continued Moore, the Bulldogs’ veteran coach of thirteen years and minor league football hall of fame member.

Moore, all of five feet, six inches of him, was appalled. The three losses, even though preseason games, weighed heavily on him. He had scheduled the game against the Diesel thinking he’d have a squad that would compete for a national championship. Never did he imagine he’d have to go to Dallas with practically a rebuilt offense and minus several key defensive reserve players.

He let the team know his feelings.

“We’re going down here to play one of the better teams in our league,” Moore scolded, “and we’ve only got thirty something guys here.”

“Thirty one, Chief,” tight end and captain Wendell Mosley informed.

“Thirty one,” Moore corrected.

“Chief,” Mosley chimed in again, “we ain’t got to sit here and wait on none of these cats.” Mosley, along with Moore, offensive tackle Stan Johnson and defensive end Fred Robinson, were the faces of the St. Louis Bulldogs.

They represented St. Louis at most of the NAFL’s league functions, including all-star games and award banquets.

Moore gave them a certain leeway others players couldn’t quite grasp. “Fuck ‘em,” Mosley continued. “Let’s go. One monkey don’t stop no show.”

“Yeah, Wendell, you’re right,” Moore agreed, “but I hate to go down there with thirty one players. We want to make an impression. We need all fifty of our guys--there’s power in numbers, boy.”

“Guys,” Moore said to his team, “get on the phone, call your buddies whose not here and tell ‘em to get here. We need bodies. We need numbers, baby. Tell ‘em if their having problems with the sixty dollar boarding fee, don’t worry about it, we’ll get it from later. Tell ‘em to just come on.”

At 1:40 AM, St. Louis headed for Dallas with just thirty-three players

                                                     **********

What’s up dirrty,” I said into Marcus’ cell phone the early evening of June 10. “You get my email?”

“Uhhh, um, I sure didn’t T.P.,” he unsurely replied. “I didn’t check my email today at work, homie.”

“Aw, it’s cool,” I pressed on, “I was jus letting you know we gon’ be leaving the Lou around midnight tonight and get to Dallas ‘round noon tomorrow.”

“Yeah? You know where ya’ll playing at yet?”

“Yeah. We, um, we um, gon’ be playing at Capel High, Cappell High, something, at seven o’clock.”

“Cappel?”

“Yeah, Cappel High, seven o’clock. I’ma call you when we touch

down in the D, aw’ight?”

“Cool. Just call me and let me know when ya’ll get here. I’ll be around.”

I was excited. I hadn’t seen Marcus in quite some time and I wanted to catch up on old times and maybe get a chance to meet his two-year daughter who I hadn’t met yet.

He was astonished with my answer when he asked me the age of my son, Toriano II.

“How old is Lil’ T, now?” he had asked.

“Twelve,” I proudly stated, flashing a wide grin through the phone only a father could muster.

 “Twelve!” Marcus deadpanned. “Damn, time is flying by. I know you got him playing ball?”

“Aw, man, football, basketball. I was going to let him play baseball dis’ summer, but he been actin’ a fool in school.”

“What?”

“Yeah, dirrty, actin’ a fool. Tellin’ the teacher things like, ‘so, you can’t tell me what to do.”

“You know what they say, right,” Marcus cajoled.

“What?”

“The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

**********

After a little over thirteen hours on the road, St. Louis arrived in the Dallas area around 2:30 on the afternoon of the 11th. The team had hotel rooms reserved at a Super 8 in Lewisburg, Texas but had stopped a few miles short of the destination to eat a light lunch before reporting to the high school stadium in Cappel.

The majority of coaches and players had slept through the night, including the two chartered bus drivers who took turns behind the wheel.

Not Moore, though.  He spent the trip trying to figure out a way to get his anemic offense to fire on all cylinders. Realizing the time was getting short, Moore informed his players to fend for lunch for themselves, but report back to the chartered bus in one hour.

Accordingly, players split up into familiar factions and dispersed into the humid and hazy Texas afternoon.

“One hour, or you won’t suit up tonight,” Moore barked to the fleeing crowd, “and I mean it danmitt

**********

I had slept through most of the nighttime part of the trip, even sleeping through a rest stop one of the two bus drivers we used made in the heart of Oklahoma. When I did finally open my eyes, I started recognizing parts of Oklahoma that I’d seen before.

As the procession moved forward, I spotted a green highway sign that read ‘Welcome to Tahlequah’.

I had visited Marcus there back in 1996 when he was playing ball at NSU and the sights of the town were forever engrained in my senses.

“Man, I knew dis’ shit was startin’ to look familiar,” I said to my teammate, Arthur Meredith, sitting in the aisle seat right next to my window seat.

“What’chu mean?” Art pondered.

“My homie used to play ball down herre at um, Northeastern State back in the mid-nineties,” I recalled. “Right herre in Tahlequah wherre we at.”

“For real?” Art asked, pretending to be interested in my speech.

“Yep, back in ‘96-97,” I explained. “Me and my homie Ping from Kansas City came down herre to check him out.”

“Where you know him from, dawg?” Art festered.

“Aw man, we went to Central Missouri together for a minute,” I detailed. “He transferred ‘cause the coach wouldn’t give him dat rock. He living in Dallas right na’. I’m finna call him and mess wit him, watch.”

Instead of calling Marcus at ten in the morning, I decided to send a text message to tease him about his three-year stay at NSU.

It read: ‘We just past a sign that says Northeastern State University. What you know about Tahlequah?’

The reply: ‘I’m a legend in Tahlequah, homeboy, what you know

about it?’

My reply: ‘I’m already knowing, dirrty, I’m already knowing.

                                              **********

Once St. Louis reached their temporary living quarters in Lewisburg, they were forced to get ready for the game at the hotel because of the impending schedule change, courtesy of the Dallas Diesel.

“They want to start the game at six thirty because they got a film crew to video tape the game,” Moore explained to his troops. “So, let’s get our stuff on in the rooms and be ready to be on the bus at four thirty.”

**********

“Marcus, what’s good homeboy?” I screamed into the hotel room’s phone. “I’m in yo’ area, cuzz.”

 “Word?” Marcus wondered, “Ya’ll just now getting here?”

“Yeah, man, that’s how the Bulldogs roll, baby,” I tried to convince.

“Check it. The game’s been moved up to six thirty, so get there on time so you can see yo’ boy get his issue off.”

“Alright, homie, I’ll see you at six thirty then.”

“Aw’ight, one.

**********

The game was a disaster for the Bulldogs.

Dallas came out smoking and after being held to a punt on their first offensive series, exploded for 18 points in the first quarter.

By halftime, the score was 31-0 and Moore was fuming.

“You mean to tell me, these guys are thirty one points better than us?” Moore admonished the team. “I’on believe that. Just like they scored thirty-one, we can score thirty-one. Defense. That’s it. You gotta hold’ em to a shutout in the second half. Offense. Let’s get our butts in gear and put some points on the board, damnmitt.

Moore’s speech was short-lived. On the ensuing kickoff to open second half play, Dallas took the kick and ran it back 70 plus yards for a touchdown. The extra point made it 38-0 less than a minute into the third quarter.

By all intents and purposes, St. Louis was done after the touchdown return. Much to Moore’s chagrin, the final score was Dallas 73, St. Louis 0.

“We came down here and laid an egg,” Moore bellowed from the throes of the post game meeting on the chartered bus. He gave instructions

for the final phase of the trip. “For all you guys who came down here to party and enjoy the night life just know at eight o’clock tomorrow morning we’re leaving. If you’re not on this at bus at eight o’clock, you butt is going to be left here in Texas, damnmitt.”

**********

“TeePee,” Marcus called out me after our 73-0 whipping from the Diesel. “Looking kinda slow out there, homeboy,”

“Marcus!” I yelled back, playfully tugging at Marcus’ midsection, “what’s up? Look at’chu, done got all fat and shit on me. You in love, fool?”

 “Man, gone,” Marcus suggested. “What’s up for the night? What ya’ll got planned.”

“Aw, man, dis’ yo’ town, we jus gon’ get in where we fit in.”

“Yeah, but what ya’ll wanna do?”

“Man, I’on know, but hey look, pull ova therre to wherre dat bus is. We got a team meeting right now, and Coach is already mad

                                                      **********

The trip didn’t turn out as well for St. Louis as Moore wanted it, but he was still glad they made it. He preferred to travel with fifty plus players, and considered canceling the trip at the last minute.

Not to show up at all wasn’t feasible when St. Louis had thirty-three players capable of matching up with the Diesel. Unfortunately, the Diesel handed the Bulldogs the worst defeat in their history.

Exhausted from the trip, Moore slept through about twelve of the fourteen hours of the return trip, opening his eyes only for a quick peep at the game film and to grab a bite to eat.

Once the team’s chartered bus reached North Oaks, Moore was livid again, and informed the team their practice routine of Wednesday and Thursday evenings had been adjusted.

“We want to see how many of you jokers show up on Tuesday,” Moore challenged, “to work on your game

**********

“Man, Marcus, it was good seeing you again, dirrty,” I said to Marcus as we arrived back to the Super 8 in the wee hours of Sunday morning. We had been out after the game at a local pub, having a few beers and chit chatting about old football stories. “You gon’ hafta come up to St. Louis and kick it wit us sometime soon.”

“Definitely,” Marcus assured, “definitely.”

“Aw’ight, man, I’ma call you sometime while we on the road tomorrow to let you know all is good,” I concluded, reaching out to Marcus to exchange the endearing handshake and hug widely practiced in the urban community. “’Preciate errythang.”

“Ya’ll be safe, T.P.,” Marcus advised, “and get in that weight room. Those Texas boys were a little bigger and stronger than ya’ll.”