The Long Snapper Page 2

  His students would have been stunned had they known the turmoil that churned inside of him. After all, he was always big, strong, confident Mr. Kinchen to them, Coach Kinchen to some, a former professional athlete whose exterior walls were built with layer upon layer of absolute certainty. The boys who were into sports thought he was just about the coolest guy they’d ever known. The girls focused on his rugged good looks—the overall build, the chiseled face with pronounced chin and well-defined jaw lines, the hazel eyes and thick brown hair, the radiant smile. But physical shell and emotional facade meant nothing now. Brian felt extremely vulnerable.

  He called his wife, who was only a building away. Lori often worked as a substitute teacher at Parkview and had also been coaching fifth-and sixth-grade cheerleading. She happened to be teaching that morning in the elementary school.

  “You’ll never guess who called me,” Brian said.

  “Who?”

  “Scott Pioli. They want me to go to New England.”

  “To coach?” Lori said.

  “No, to play.”

  “Shut up, Brian. There’s no way.”

  He offered details and convinced her that he was telling the truth. Then the conversation turned to making a decision. Brian explained that Pioli would be calling back shortly and wanted him at the airport as soon as possible.

  “I really don’t think I want to go,” Brian told his wife. “I just don’t want to deal with the rejection again.”

  “Well, what about living the rest of your life wondering what might have happened?” Lori replied. “I mean, let’s say you go and then they don’t sign you. At least you tried. It’s a lot easier to live with something you at least tried than to live with the regret that you didn’t even give it a chance. If you don’t go, you’ll have to live with that regret your whole life.”

  “True. I guess I need to think about that.”

  “The worst thing that happens is you’re gone for a couple days. Maybe they’ll let me take your classes for you. I already know most of the kids. It wouldn’t be that big a deal.”

  “No.”

  “And then if the Patriots end up signing you and you’re up there for a while, with Christmas break coming, you wouldn’t even be missing that much school.”

  Brian paused. Then he said, “Let’s talk again in a little while. I want to go get a football and see what it feels like.”

  By this point, the students had a pretty good feel for their first-year teacher. They knew that Brian was unmistakably serious when it came to the understanding of Bible stories and concepts, but they also appreciated that he consistently tried to foster a fairly light atmosphere in the classroom. The first day of school he had been asked by one of the students what they were supposed to call him. This was a somewhat confusing matter because many of the kids had already known him before he started teaching. He had coached some of the boys in football. His wife had coached some of the girls in cheerleading. And some of the kids had long been friends with his two oldest sons: Austin was now in eighth grade, and Hunter was in sixth. “Okay, we have a few choices,” Brian told his first class. “You can call me Mr. Kinchen, Mr. Brian, Coach Kinchen…or Professor.” Everyone laughed. “Yeah, I like the sound of that,” Brian said, with mock seriousness. “Professor. Really stuffy, formal guy. That’s me.” It was so not him that some of the students got a kick out of calling him that and still did sometimes.

  Even knowing Brian the way they did, they were still surprised when he announced that they were taking a break from reviewing for the final exam. He was going to get a football from the athletic department, and they were all going outside so he could show them what a long snapper does. Actually, Brian also had another reason—the one he’d shared with Lori—that he wanted to get his hands on a football. Before hearing back from Pioli, he wanted to be certain that he could still throw it between his legs with the same power and precision that had always come so easily to him. Brian had no reason to think it would be a problem, but he wanted to make sure. Fortunately, he was in a climate that would comfortably allow for a spontaneous class outing in the middle of December. The sky was clear, and the temperature was fifty-three degrees.

  Brian led his students outside to an open stretch of grass, dirt, and gravel between their two-story brick school building and the collection of swings, slides, and climbing apparatus that filled the playground. He marked off fifteen yards and explained the measurement to those who didn’t know what it represented: the distance a long snapper typically throws the football from the line of scrimmage—where a play begins—to a punter who will kick the ball away to the other team.

  “Come catch some for me,” Brian said to one of his students, Wesley Perkins, who was one of the better football players in the seventh grade.

  Brian stretched his arms and shoulders. Standing upright, he threw a few passes—just as a quarterback would—to make sure he was loose. Then he tugged at his dress slacks for better mobility and bent forward toward the ground. He gripped the football with both hands and stared back through his legs at Wesley’s outstretched hands.

  “Ready?” Brian asked in an upside-down shout.

  “Ready,” Wesley said.

  Brian fired away and…thwack…Wesley felt the hard leather and unforgiving laces of the football violate the soft skin of his palms.

  “Wow,” Wesley said.

  The other students oohed and aahed. None of them had any idea that the ball would be zipping so fast through the air. The average NFL snapper requires between seven-and eight-tenths of a second to cover the fifteen yards from his grip to the hands of a punter.

  “How was the spiral?” Brian wanted to know.

  “Perfect,” Wesley said.

  “Let’s do it again.”

  Wesley caught close to a dozen snaps.

  “Where was it?” Brian asked after each.

  “Right down the middle,” Wesley kept reporting. Only once did a snap move slightly off center. But then the next one was right on target again.

  “Spiral was good?” Brian said.

  “Better than my passes!” Wesley answered.

  Other students stepped in to try catching a snap or two. A couple of the boys were able to hold on. None of the girls had much success, usually just knocking the ball down or even jumping out of the way before it reached them, but they had no problem screaming and laughing and playfully wrapping themselves in the excitement of it all. After a while, four girls decided that they would stand together—one big target—and that one of them would somehow come up with a catch. “We’re getting it this time,” Ashley Thornton said. But when Brian let loose of the football, one of the other girls simply swatted it to the ground and they all went right back to giggling.

  Brian still had work to do. He cut the distance almost in half, marking a spot about seven and three-quarters yards away, right where he would want a holder positioned to catch and place the ball for a kicker to attempt a field goal or an extra point after a touchdown. Wesley got down on a knee and held out a hand for Brian to target.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  With a shorter distance to travel, the ball was coming in even harder now. Lower and harder. Right on target.

  Pretty amazing, Wesley thought. Does he ever miss?

  When the bell rang to signal the end of class, Brian’s students returned to the normal flow of their school day, gathering up books and knapsacks, scurrying off to their next classes. Brian stayed behind for a few moments, staring at the ground, pondering his predicament: I want to submit to God’s plan, but what is it? I thought I was supposed to be here at the school, and I made a commitment to teaching. But now am I supposed to go? Brian silently asked for help: Please, Lord, give me some kind of clarity.

  Brian soon found that clarity in the form of encouragement from others. He spoke to his dad on the telephone. He called an old LSU teammate—Tommy Hodson, one of his best friends from college—who had gone on to play quarterback for the Patriots in the early 19
90s. He visited with the school principal, Cooper Pope. Their responses were all similar: “What a great opportunity. What are you even thinking about?” When Brian explained to Pope that he was struggling with the thought of breaking his commitment to the school, the principal encouraged him not to look at it that way. “It’s a no-brainer,” Pope said. “This is something you need to do. You gotta go play if you can. And, no matter what happens, the experience will serve the school and the kids well. This might be a God-created opportunity for you to go do something and then bring it back to share with the kids.” That made Brian feel better. By the time he was done processing, he was certain he had to go for the tryout. He was also sorry he had ever asked Pioli for time to think about it: What if he’s already found someone else while he’s waiting to call me back?

  Brian had two more classes before lunch. He opened each with an explanation of what was happening with the Patriots. Then he did the best he could to concentrate on reviewing. Really, though, all he was doing was waiting for his cell phone to ring. When it finally did, he was relieved to see Pioli’s number on the screen.

  Brian had a question for him: “Is there any way you can guarantee that I’m actually gonna get the job?”

  “Can’t promise you anything,” Pioli said. “You know how it works.”

  “Yeah, I understand,” Brian said. “But you can at least promise me I’m gonna see Belichick, right? I mean, if I’m going all the way up there, I am not leaving without at least a ‘hello’ from the guy.”

  After those three painful tryouts the year before, three straight rejections without even seeing the head coaches, Brian was doing emotional damage control.

  “Not a problem,” Pioli said. “You’ll definitely see Bill. You have my word on that.”

  “Good,” Brian said. “So what do I need to do?”

  Pioli put an assistant on the line to discuss travel plans. Only a few days after sitting at a computer and putting together the final exam for his seventh-grade Bible students, formulating questions about miracles and morality and free will, Brian now had all of about three hours before he had to be at the airport.

  After making final arrangements with school administrators—Lori would indeed handle his classes while he was gone—Brian went home for toiletries and a change of clothes. That was it: just one day’s worth of essentials. If he ended up signing with the Patriots, Lori would ship more clothes to him. But there was no reason to get ahead of himself. He and his family had been around football plenty long enough—three generations’ worth of blocking and tackling and life-changing drama—to know that virtually anything could happen.

  Two

  Jacob Calvin Kinchen had a lot to consider when it came time, on June 7, 1938, to name his first child, starting with the fact that he had never really liked his own first name. That was why he called himself Jake and those closest to him just used the initials J.C. Perhaps that would have been enough to push any less of a football man toward the choice of a safe name that would always be comfortable for his child. But Jake could not help himself. He had been captain of his high school football team, the Albany Panthers, 1934 district champions in Livingston Parish, Louisiana, and he had become a coach at nearby Live Oak High School. How serious was Jake Kinchen about training his players? “He would get us in front of his car in this little lane that was fenced in, and then he would start driving,” one of his first student-athletes, Odom Graves, would still vividly remember some seventy years later. “You didn’t have any choice but to run.” Only a man with such passion for sport could possibly look beyond his own discomfort with the seemingly benign name of Jacob and name his son…Gaynell.

  Brian Kinchen’s father was named after one of the era’s most famous people in Louisiana: Gaynell Tinsley, the first All-American football player at LSU. Tinsley was a unanimous pick for the Associated Press team in both 1935 and 1936. He went on to play professionally for the Chicago Cardinals, and in his rookie year of 1937 he led the NFL in receiving yardage. During the off-season that followed, his given name was introduced to the Kinchen family tree.

  Naturally, Gaynell Kinchen started playing football when he was quite young. He loved the game, but he despised the childhood razzing that came with such an unusual name. Much to Gaynell’s relief, he was eventually bailed out by a coach during his freshman year at Baton Rouge High School. The coach started calling him “Gus” because that was Gaynell Tinsley’s nickname. “Gus” Kinchen would have been plenty happy if his link to the former LSU star had ended there. It did not. Their shared name was only the beginning. Before long, Gus Kinchen would himself become something of a folkloric figure in the rich history of LSU football.

  Nothing about his first two collegiate seasons foretold anything but frustration. Playing on the 1956 freshman team, Kinchen severely injured his left knee, which had already required surgery in high school, and he underwent another operation. Still unable to play as a sophomore, he served in the menial role of team manager, hauling equipment and running errands for the coaches.

  These were also humbling times for the LSU football program as a whole. In 1955, LSU had hired a new coach, thirty-year-old Paul Dietzel, who arrived in Baton Rouge as the youngest head coach in major college football. He had a sign painted for the entrance to the LSU practice field, optimistically welcoming his charges to “The Proving Grounds.” But after winning only eleven of thirty games in three years under Dietzel, the LSU Tigers had proved only their own mediocrity. More of the same was predicted for 1958. A pre-season poll of sportswriters placed LSU eighth in the twelve-team Southeastern Conference. Tiger Stadium held 67,510 seats, but expectations were so low that tickets were printed for only 30,000 of them. There were grumblings that Dietzel had to go.

  Then magic happened.

  The turning point was Dietzel’s decision to break his squad into three permanent units and play an unusual style of platoon football. The eleven best players would play about the first half of each quarter on both offense and defense. Two backup units, one on offense, the other on defense, would split the remaining playing time. This would allow the best players to stay fresher. It would also boost team morale, because more players would actually get to play.

  The new system brought immediate success. Winning game after game was itself quite a surprise. But the most unexpected outcome was the stellar performance of the least talented of the three units: the defensive specialists, who came to be known as the Chinese Bandits. The name came from a popular comic strip, “Terry and the Pirates,” in which artist Milton Caniff had characterized Chinese bandits as the meanest and most vicious people in the world. That was exactly what Dietzel wanted in his defensive unit. Gus Kinchen, still hampered by his bad knee but finally back on the field, played right end for the Bandits and quickly became a leader.

  “Bless his heart, he didn’t have any speed and he wasn’t very big,” teammate Don “Scooter” Purvis would later say. “But Gus was one of the best technique players you’d ever see. He had the savvy and the know-how. He was never out of position—always covering his assignment. And he was just an excellent leader. Gus didn’t lead by shouting and hollering. He led by example. He was the type of person you wanted to emulate because of his dedication.”

  Three things happened as LSU continued winning: The Tigers kept climbing the national rankings. School officials scrambled to print more tickets. And the Chinese Bandits kept gaining popularity.

  For the rest of his life, Dietzel would say without hesitation that he never had any thrill greater than coaching the Bandits. They were so enthusiastic, so wild, and they hustled. They taught him more about gang tackling than any team he had ever coached—or ever would.

  Fans simply loved the Bandits—and the Chinese theme started popping up everywhere. Thousands of people wore straw coolie hats to the games. The LSU cheerleaders unfurled a large banner with “So Lau Yah” (“Hold That Line”) written in Chinese characters. A Memphis disc jockey wrote a Chinese Bandit chant that the LSU
band put to music and played in the stadium:

  Chinese bandits on their way,

  Listen to what Confucius say.

  Chinese bandits, they can knock,

  Gonna stop a touchdown—chop-chop!

  Players on the other two units got plenty of attention, too, especially do-it-all halfback Billy Cannon, who would win the Heisman Trophy the next year. But the Bandits were often front and center when it came to fan frenzy and media coverage. Six games into the season and still undefeated, LSU was for the first time voted number one in the Associated Press college football poll. “They Did It!!” screamed the banner headline in the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate of October 28, 1958. Directly under the headline—looming large across six columns—was a graphic designed to look like the page of a Chinese newspaper but with posed action photos of Kinchen and fellow Bandit Merle Schexnaildre superimposed on it. Sports Illustrated and Life magazine would later run prominent feature stories on the Bandits—the former declaring them “the darlings of the South” and the latter including a large color photo of them wearing football uniforms and wicked-looking Chinese masks with yellow-green faces and black Fu Manchu mustaches. After the tenth and final regular-season game, in which LSU clobbered Tulane, 62–0, to remain undefeated and lock up the national championship (then decided before bowl games), AP writer W.B. Ragsdale Jr. said of the Bandits: “This is possibly the most publicized substitute team in college football history and probably the proudest.”