The summer of 1966. August to be precise. Sixteen seniors in the class of '67 were preparing for their final season of football. The year before, the Lincolnton Red Devils had won eight games, lost one, and tied one. Hopes were high that the '66 season would go well, but nineteen players from that team had graduated, a sign of things to come.

Back then we played in Region 10- C. The big opponents were Washington, Greensboro, Louisville, and Warrenton. We played two new opponents that season, Mount de Sales and Putnam County, and familiar opponents such as Hephzibah, Sparta, Wadley, and Wrens. In the '60s, the region title usually came down to the Warrenton game.

The season began with two-a-days in August. We'd spend a week at the old Y camp on the lake going to team meetings and ride buses to the gym to suit up and practice early in the morning and later in the afternoon. There was a shortcut connecting 220 to Highway 378. Each bus would take a different route and race to practice. Sometimes the bus taking the shortcut won; sometimes it didn't. This race, such as it was, provided a brief distraction from what waited at the end of the ride.

Practice wasn't fun. Temperatures in the low 90s with high humidity tested your resolve. Sweat stung your eyes, and you practiced beneath a blazing sun. A wandering cloud or a thunderstorm brought relief and an overcast day was longed for as were the first chill October days.

Head Coach Thomas Bunch and coaches Jimmy Smith and Kermitt Adams put us through the paces. The team would break up into groups and work on drills. Back then we played both ways; we didn't platoon.

Sports medicine was nowhere as sophisticated today as it was back then. We drank water from a big canvas bug that hung from the Buddy Bufford arch and we gobbled salt tablets like M&Ms. The tablets were intended to prevent cramps, but salt tablets we know now often do more harm than good. The salt tablet was old school for sure. There was no Gator Aid or sports drink. Just water and salt tablets. We survived though.

I remember, too, we passed around a towel soaked with water and covered with grass clippings. We'd all pass it around and suck on it. Looking back, that was rougher than some of the hits we took. We survived the nasty towel too.

The first morning or two after twoa days began, I could hardly get out of bed. My joints felt nailed together. My first few steps were stiff as boards. At the gym, we'd put on uniforms smelling of ammonia and go out and warm up. You had to be careful dressing. Now and then some joker would coat your athletic supporter with Blistosol. It was easy to spot victims. They were the ones racing back to the gym.

We did stretches, side-straddlehops, push-ups, and the dreaded six counters. We'd lie on our back and arch out backs muscling up our necks by grabbing the faceguards and rotating out helmet-clad heads on the turf. We ran wind sprints, blocked dummies, hit the sled, tackled dummies, ran plays, practiced routes, practiced tip drills, and scrimmaged. I wore number 13, the number which no skyscraper carries. The floors jump from 12 to 14. Typically superstitious, most athletes don't care to wear 13. They avoid the number's long association with bad luck. I've never been one to suffer from Triskaidekaphobia, a mouthful of letters resembling Russian that names this fear of 13. Suspicious people love to point to Apollo 13 as one of the more disastrous examples of 13's bad luck. Liftoff was at 13:13 hours on April 11, 1970, or 4-11-70, which, when added digit by digit equals 13. Was my jersey number unlucky?

My first game, first play as a sophomore, playing containment on kickoff, an opponent's nail-like posts (his cleats were missing) ripped two holes in my leg. Dr. Pennington cut away some flesh, stitched me up, gave me a shot, and back into the game I went. In another game, I got knocked down and as I sat up a fellow player tried to leap over me and his knee clubbed me in the forehead. I remember coming to on the sideline where Coach Bunch, I think it was, was holding fingers in front of my faceguard and asking me what day it was.

Against Putnam County, Brent Cunningham, a great player who went on to play for Georgia Tech, put his helmet into my chest, bruising my sternum; it ached for weeks. In another game, I got knocked out again. I broke a toe and played with it broken.

In the seventh game, we played Louisville. I ran a sweep around left end and was knocked down. As I slid out of bounds facedown, a player from Louisville speared me in my lower back, right side. He fractured three transverse processes, a fancy word for the spinal column knobs where muscles attach. I missed a lot of time playing time and finished the season wearing a brace. To this day, I don't know if the spearing drew a flag.

Would I do it again? In a minute and I'd wear 13 again.

Being in a game is something you never forget. I can't recall ever hearing the crowd. The sounds I remember were play calls in the huddle, the clap of hands as we broke, and the thud of punts. Everything seemed to be in a dream. Dead silence.

The Red Devils of 1966 did not uphold the Red Devil tradition. The season ended like it started. Blowouts. We failed to score a point in the opener, losing to Washington 27 to 0. We lost the last game to Warrenton 47 to 0 at home, the second worst loss in Red Devil history. I didn't sleep well for nights.

I recall my days playing the greatest game of all because football did good things for me. I love the game, nothing like it. Watching a game you once played you better feel the game's urgency. It instilled as well a desire to stay in shape. And it shapes how I perceive others. Over the years, an observation about men who never played football surfaced. Many are difficult, not much at being team players. Playing on a team and having a part to do on every play instills an appreciation for cooperation. And toughness too. If you're a mom with a young son, let him play football. It's the ultimate sport.

To this day, the smell of freshly mown grass resurrects memories of the games and many practices. I dream now and then that I am back in a game. When I awake, I'm always disappointed. And disappointed as well in the 1966 season. A bad taste lingers, especially from the Warrenton game, the last time I suited up.

Email Tom with feedback and ideas for new columns. tompol@ earthlink.net