Part 1 - Welcome to Butte USA
I begin this story on a crisp, clear Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1995 upon the dewed grass of the old Butte High Stadium (recently renovated and renamed Naranche Stadium), a high school football field in Butte, Montana, or “Butte USA” as the locals prefer to call it--a tribute to its heyday.
Historically, Butte was among the largest and most notorious copper boomtowns in the American West. These days it remains the largest Superfund site in the nation. (Superfund sites are areas with such immense environmental damage, the Environmental Protection Agency of the United States Federal Government has been tasked to manage cleanup and mitigation efforts.) For this reason, among others, my buddies and I felt the name “Butt USA” more fitting, though some preferred to call it “Armpit”, short for “The Armpit of Montana” and a reference to the Berkeley Pit, a former open pit copper mine turned acid and heavy metal laden lake. Believe it or not, you can visit this Superfund site in exchange for a two dollar admission fee to walk out onto the viewing platform--a small gift shop is even available.
In truth, Butte is a rough, but fun town with a rich history--best enjoyed during the narrow Montana summer season; short but magical. The great daredevil Evel Knievel was born (and buried) in Butte--a legacy annually commemorated over a three-day event, or should I say motorcycle jumping drunkfest, each July. If you ever do make it to Butte, and you survive Evel Knievel Days as it’s called, be sure to stop by Pork Chop John’s for one glorious, mustard-drenched pork chop sandwich that’s sure to satisfy.
I was a tall, athletic football player for the Flathead Braves of Kalispell, Montana. We were visiting Butte for an away game--the first of my much anticipated senior season. Grady Bennett, a rock-star former quarterback for the University of Montana Grizzlies, outspoken evangelical Christian and then offensive coordinator, graced our sidelines with a quick, energetic pace that, not-too-infrequently, erupted into what I called “hopping-scissor-kicks” during critical moments of the game.
Bob Applegate, our head coach, was a different act. Recruited out of the rugged town of Anaconda, Montana (a stone’s throw from Butte), Applegate was a former linebacker for Carroll College--a private Montana Catholic school with a fierce tradition of NAIA football championships and the always crowd pleasing annual Smoker, an unregulated amateur boxing event invented for fundraising purposes. Applegate must have been a legitimate contender for the annual Smoker for he looked more like a bare-knuckle boxer from the 1800s than a high school PE teacher and football coach. I wasn’t a fan of his style at the time, but I was attentive to his toughness and grit. I certainly preferred he remain on our sideline rather than take to the opponents’.
It seemed that whenever Grady started in with hopping-scissor-kicks, ‘ol Applegate would purse his cheek and lip at the same time and spit the longest stream of smokeless tobacco spit you maybe ever did see. And so it went, Grady lept and Applegate spat. I lined up for the opening kickoff of the opening game of my senior year of football, ready to impress any college coach presently watching or soon to be reviewing game film. I was nearly certain I’d end my senior year of high school with a football scholarship to the University of Montana, or maybe even someplace “bigger”--whatever that meant I wasn’t exactly sure at the time.
A short seven seconds later, I was on the ground writhing in pain from a broken ankle. Our kicker had kicked the ball out of the back of the end zone, resulting in the referees blowing their whistles and calling the play over just as I was about to collide with an opposing Butte player. In an effort to avoid drawing a penalty flag for a hit after the whistle, I tried to stop in mid-sprint. The field grass and soil was overly damp from heavy dew, overwatering, or both. I slid on the grass riding the heel cleats of my right shoe, while my left foot dangle below me. As I lost my balance and fell backwards, all of my weight came straight down on my trailing, extended ankle causing significant damage and a bone break--the extent of which I’ll never be quite sure. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I can’t blame anyone except myself for my misfortune--I simply fell on my own leg without even the slightest touch of an opposing player. At the time, that fact only added insult to injury. So far as Applegate was concerned, I needed to cowboy-up and get back out on the field, which I tried in the following game, further injuring myself. The one thing I am quite certain of though is that this event marked the beginning of my lifelong battle with depression.