Grafton's Moment in the Sun

It felt like the thing to do. Grafton High School was having a moment in the sun. Its football team had won its way into the state Division 3 tournament finals in Madison at Camp Randall Stadium. I had to go.

I once played quarterback for Grafton's football team. That was more than half a century ago. 

Generally, we were pretty successful. We lost three games over two seasons, two of which we probably should have won, but we won at least a share of the conference championship both times. We had good, stingy defenses and offenses which were usually pretty productive.

There were no playoffs back then. I remember writing one of my sports columns decrying the inclination to begin playoffs, asking pointedly what was wrong with a bunch of conference champions without spoiling nearly all their seasons with a final-game loss, which playoffs arrange for. But that was long ago and far away. Besides, the WIAA, the governing organization of interscholastic sports in the state, has divided the competition seven ways, thus providing for as many champions as can be in a state this size. In football, size of school has a lot to do with how many large people you can put on the field. Dominance is crucial in a combative sport like football, and a school without that many behemoths stands to have its players hurt far more often if they play other schools that have a much greater enrollment. 

Despite the equipment improvements, that remains on the shelf. The New York Times has just run an article about today's players getting what's called CTE, the effects of intense compact on someone's brain. It was originally found in professional players who had undergone a great deal of mayhem, but it's now being found in high school players too, since many of them began playing football in grade school--something I used to decry, too, to no avail.

I worked at maintenance in the summer to earn money for my college experience at or around that same high school, which had been turned into an elementary school; the new high school had been built connecting it. Since then, I returned only momentarily for things like coaching basketball against Grafton, playing in a recreational basketball league, and covering an outstanding set of Grafton football teams that constituted a temporary dynasty in the 1980s.

So when Grafton High got into the Division 3 state title football game, I went with sentimentality but an open mind. I had no idea exactly how good that team was, or whether they had much of a chance against their opponents, Rice Lake, which played an entirely different schedule.

Grafton brought an enormous band of faithful, larger than that of Rice Lake, mostly, I'd imagine, since Camp Randall is about 90 minutes from the high school campus. Rice Lake is from the northwest part of the state, about four hours away. Their fans were just as rabid.

Deservedly so. The scores that Rice Lake had been dialing up against their opponents usually began with the numeral 5. 5, as in fifty. I don't care who you're playing, getting 50 points most of the time in high school games suggests steamrolling, especially since Wisconsin respects the national high school rule that makes the clock go without stoppage when the margin becomes beyond 35 points--meaning that in most of its games, Rice Lake had that much less time to amass its enormous scores.

Grafton had a very good team that got hot. It had lost to Port Washington 35-7 early in the season, for instance, but came back to defeat it 22-21 in the playoffs. Having not followed football in the state for a long time, having just learned that Grafton had changed conferences and been bumped down to Division 3, I had no idea whether Rice Lake had slipped into the finals because of weak competition.

It hadn't. It became apparent quite early that Rice Lake had a bevy of very good athletes who could break away for a score at any time. Grafton's task was to slow them down and keep the game within reach. This it did, and nearly pulled off what would have been another upset. Grafton had a good quarterback, Brady Hilgart, and a strong running back named Tommy Lutz. Any one of five Rice Lake players were fast enough to break away, but Lutz was very difficult to bring down. Thus were the philosophies of offense: One dared you to stop people from many different angles, the other hitched its horse to one saddle and dared you to stop that. Both worked pretty well.

Parking in Madison being what it is, I came late to the game, and Rice Lake had already scored on a long pass. But Grafton came back and scored at the beginning of the second quarter to draw within 8-6. Rice Lake's placekicker had an approach like the pre-soccer style kickers of yesteryear, straight on, something I quite frankly hadn't seen for 50-plus years, and obviously didn't have confidence in him to maintain a steady point-after, so it abandoned that approach and always went for two. The score begged Grafton to do the same to catch up, but the coach ordered a point-after kick that went through confidently but left Grafton behind, 8-7, something I simply don't understand. What if nobody else scored?

But he must have had confidence in his offense, which did not let him down. Rice Lake scored to make it 14-7, but missed their two-point conversion. Grafton responded by scoring and tied it with another very good extra point kick. Grafton's kicker, doing the now-traditional soccer style, had plenty of leg and probably could have nailed a 40-yard field goal--something worth keeping in mind should the game come to that.

The game remained tied at 14 at the half. As the teams went to their locker rooms, the Grafton band struck up the school song. Time to stand up!

Three cheers for Grafton High School,

Hail orange and black!

We are the Blackhawks,

Spirits we'll not lack (Fight! Fight! Fight!)

So fight with all your might, boys,

Fight for her fame,

Go Grafton Blackhawks,

We will win this game!

Still knew it like my name. We sang it so often during our state basketball tournament run in 1966, my freshman year, that we were likely to hum it in our sleep. The state tournament did not respect school class designations back then, so all the schools were bunched into pairings. It took seven victories to make it to the big show. Grafton, enrollment about 420 back then, was one of those Davids that went to Madison to play in the old University of Wisconsin Field House to take on Goliaths like Madison East, which we upset in the quarterfinals. The run ended the next day when Wisconsin Rapids was too much for us. But the anticipation, the suspense, the bus rides on which we yelled on the way to games and slept on the way back, the school assemblies, were all memorable. 

State football tournaments began in Wisconsin in the mid-1970s. It was left to conjecture over Friday night beers to deduce what some of the great teams of the 1950s and '60s might have done. It would have been interesting to see what might have happened to the team that immediately followed the basketball run in the fall of 1966. It was a tremendous juggernaut with several terrific players. I was a sophomore and got into a couple of the more lopsided victories. Otherwise, I was reduced to keeping track of what plays were being called and how many yards they made, supposedly for quick reference to tell what could be called at a crucial point of a game. But there weren't many crucial moments in that season; we walloped everyone by at least two touchdowns and also ran up big scores. It was all great to watch from the sideline. We had four consecutive teams that either finished as champions or co-champions, and I'm confident we would have made a dent in playoff proceedings each time. But that one, in 1966, had the talent, swagger and poise of something truly special.

There is nothing quite like going to a state tournament final. The Grafton of 2023 had to win four games to get here; after long a mid-season squeaker to Greenfield, it found its groove and downed the last four opponents by a combined 199-7--again, remarkable because of the 35-point, continuous clock rule. After an easy first round win over Wisconsin Lutheran, though, it pulled off that upset over Port, eased past Menasha, and brought down Stoughton in a 17-6 win that was closer than the final score. 

The Rice Lake Warriors had bolted through its tournament run by a combined total of 188-78. It had given its last four regular season foes a combined 196-43 drubbing. So both teams were capable of scoring explosions, but Rice Lake was kind of scary.

I marveled at the sophistication with which both teams organized their attacks. The Warriors' offense was a double-split, double-wing, where one wingback or another came back in motion to create lots of deception, not unlike the approach used by Army, Navy, or Air Force. Grafton sometimes went to formations with five wide receivers and competently moved the ball well with that approach. But Rice Lake didn't allow long gains, making the Blackhawks earn their way downfield. As a result, both teams burned the clock and it limited the number of possessions they had. Either way, 50 years ago, these formations would have been unheard of on the high school level. They operated with efficiency and calm disposal. Nobody looked confused about anything.

Rice Lake came out and scored again in the third quarter. It went for two again, but failed, making it 20-14. Grafton returned the favor early in the 4th, as Lutz plowed through a stiff goal line stand from the one-yard line with Category 5 collisions galore.

When the Blackhawks lined up for the extra point, the game looked about to turn. But the Warriors broke through and blocked it. That was Grafton's high-water mark. Had it taken the lead, who knows what would have happened?

But Rice Lake never lost its poise. Grafton tried to contain its potent offense but fortune intervened. Rice Lake gained a first down with a nice run in Grafton territory, fumbled, but recovered it. On the very next play, Rice Lake's fine quarterback, Jakob Kurtz, rolled to his left and found an open receiver. He threw it too high, and the ball was tipped. It looked like another opportunity for Grafton to change the game's momentum, but the ball traveled downfield and was caught in perfect stride by another Rice Lake receiver, who ran to the Grafton 16 before being corralled. Four plays later, Rice Lake had taken an irreversible lead. It added the conversion to make it 28-20.

Grafton took over with more than four minutes left, plenty of time to travel the length of the field and perhaps tie the game. Grafton's quarterback, Brady Hilgart, also did well to move the Blackhawks to midfield. There the drive stalled when, on fourth down, he couldn't find an open receiver, tried to run for the first down, and was swarmed under for no gain.

Grafton remained alive, though. It had all its time-outs left, which it used for the three downs in which Rice Lake failed to advance the ball to make a first down. About 1:30 remained with the ball in Blackhawk territory. Rice Lake had played very good containment defense, so assuming no big punt runback from near Grafton's own goal line, that would put Grafton in a tough spot without any ability to stop the clock. But the Warriors sealed that issue; they decided to fake the punt on fourth down and ran for a first down, which allowed it to run out the clock and guarantee the victory. 

Grafton had acquitted itself well. The kids had much to be proud of. Someone had to win, but the competitive moment had not been too big for them in the cavernous stadium with replays galore on the massive TV screen above one end. I can't say there were any controversial officials' calls on which to build conjecture, either. How do I know they did a good job? Nobody noticed them. No nasty signs were dangled, no fights started. The traditional handshake lineup began. 

I was glad to have gone. There is chaos elsewhere in many places, but there was none here. Competitive sports can, sometimes, restore a sense of order and decency. That my alma mater had participated in one expression of that gave me a nice connection, a sense of continuity. Not a bad way for kids to grow up.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

Why Do We Only Know Now?

(Any comments--contact me at dadofprince@gmail.com. Thanks!)

It's a terrific movie, even though it's more than three hours long. I honestly didn't notice.

"Killers of the Flower Moon" is a story that has been aching to be told. Based on a book by David Grann, a reporter for the New York Times, it depicts what amounts to a slaughter in slow motion, an act of moral depravity that leaves one's blood cold to consider the calculation of it all.

Dispersed to reservation land in Oklahoma, the Osage tribe found itself camped squarely above an incredibly rich oil deposit. This was the early 1920s, when automobiles were first gaining popularity in the American culture. The monetary boom was incredible, and the Osage took maximum advantage. Per capita, they became the richest people in the world. They bought expensive cars, lived in enormous mansions, hired whites as chauffeurs.

But the white culture was caught unawares, and jealousy and racism combined into a toxic stew. First by legislation in the national Congress, then by trickery and murder, that money changed hands. Playing the long game, white men married Native women to gain access to the 'headlight,' the legal permission to claim benefits from inheritances, then they killed them--sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly so as not to raise suspicion.

The depiction of this is brilliantly done, as you might guess, by director Martin Scorcese, who appears in a brief cameo first before the film begins to thank people for coming to face the terrible results of greed and avarice, and then comes in at the end as part of his own film. Starring are Robert DiNiro and Leonardo DiCaprio as perpetrators in this awful scheme. It is a film with all the earmarks of a classic.

It is Lily Gladstone as DiCaprio's Native wife who steals the film, though. She is the confused eyes and ears of the oncoming trouble, and is typically victimized by the web of deception that's needed to maintain access to the huge reservoir of cash available. I'll let you either read the book--I've heard it's quite good--or see the film to discover her fate.

Here's my question, though, echoing someone to whom I mentioned the film: Why do we only know this now? Why is this such a revelation one hundred years later?

Because the history of minority groups in this country needs to be hidden, that's why. I taught history for 30 years and I had absolutely no idea about this. None. I thought that, with the revelation of the Tulsa massacre of blacks in 1921--which took long enough to find common school history books--Oklahoma's racism had reached a peak. Uh-uh. There was more. Much more.

That's an embarrassment. Or at least it should be to those who keep track of such things. That people were subjected to lengthy incarceration for such crimes shouldn't have been sufficient to fulfill retribution. The country should have known about it, discussed it, and made sure it was chronicled in its history books.

It wasn't. Somewhere, somehow, someone decided that this wasn't part of our national priorities. I'm not in the least surprised.

After all, just half a century before that outrageous event, we were killing, and were proud to be killing without conscience, other Natives for being in the way of our expanding settlements. The Osage that found themselves sitting atop buckets of money were in fact being shoved onto what others believed to be worthless land, just so someone could say that they were promised something--the vast vestiges of broken treaties and mass murders, willing and accidental, that followed.

That millions of mostly white kids throughout America were robbed of this information is the creation of mass deception, deception that is still being promoted today. It's almost necessary, lest we admit to ourselves that these Natives, as well as those who preceded them, had equal value to the rest of us. It is necessary, too, to a culture that refuses to admit that racism has always permeated it, lying just beneath daily life, surfacing here and there like an emotional volcano.

If this had happened to WASPs, there would be no end of weeping and gnashing of teeth. Instead, this is another footnote to the racism that survives and thrives right now, racism that has flourished and will continue to flourish unabated if the wrong person gets elected president next year. Remember, he was responsible for the separation of thousands of children from immigrant families. Press vigilance couldn't stop it. Moral rectitude certainly couldn't stop it. The only thing that stopped it was electoral defeat.

It was his quickly assembled gang of historical tricksters, too, that devised a "1776 Project" in an attempt to counteract the "1619 Project," the latter of which unearthed new facts and new attitudes towards a new understanding that the very basis of the development of the resources that made us the world powerhouse we are came from the need for white supremacy. The former's thinking blossomed in the sewage pits, and brought forth the quasi-truth that some of the slaves acquired skills because they had been enslaved--as if they couldn't have learned them, or even gotten better skills, had they been free. These it-wasn't-all-bad dismissals remove the need for reckoning with a past that has had some acts of serious, unreported corruption.

Martin Scorcese has seen that, and has spent considerable time and attention to just one, terrifying process of minority slaughter. More than 300--no one knows exactly how many--Osage people were killed by this complex plot. That it took months to remove them from the earth instead of one cavalry charge at a time against Native resistance does not diminish the simple fact that many whites were complicit about both branches of the same genocide. We have never overlooked it, but we have failed repeatedly to deal with its enormity.

We went on instead, mournful like having someone's else's pet getting run over by a car, then turning away and getting on with our profitable lives. That failure was not lost on Hitler, who said more than once that his model for ridding the world of all Jews was that of Americans and their collective disdain, and racial dominance, of the Natives who were here first and who were pushed around and wiped out until almost none were left. If our whites did that, why couldn't he? What gave them their right to moral rectitude?

And why are we ignoring that, too? Because one who is clearly following in his footsteps is now plotting on revenge toward others who, in the interim period between what might be his two terrible reigns, have done their best to reveal truths that he's understandably (to understand, though, is not to approve), but deservedly, uncomfortable with. Some of these are now being played out, or soon will be played out, in court. We will see what accountability he faces. Remember: Hitler served only nine months in prison for trying to overthrow his government.

If that ugly history won't matter, nothing will. We will be left with no past that will matter, either. And no future.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark