In 1971, the Ottawa High School (OHS) football team finished undefeated, with a record of 9-0-0. Our coach, the legendary Bill “Boom Boom” Novak, was tough and appeared to get every ounce of effort from the team. I was thinking about Coach Novak with the recent news about the death of a University of Maryland football player and accusations that the coach ran an abusive program. Coach Novak was hard on us, but abusive?

Our practices were tough, especially at the beginning of the season when we did two-a-days in August. It was hot. It was humid. The coaching staff quickly saw who was in shape and who wasn’t. I won’t speak for others, but I remember sucking pretty badly at the start of that year.

There are two things I particularly recall about those practices. First, there was no water. Now, everyone knows the importance of hydration, but then it was a part of the toughness routine to go without water. Nobody thought or said anything about it. The second thing I remember was running wind sprints at the end of practice. We called them “weeds”. As practice ended, the team moved to the head-high weeds near the Illinois River. There, we would run a series of sprints, first running forward, then back peddling to the start line and getting down in a stance for the next whistle. Back and forth, back and forth we went. It often seemed weeds continued forever. Coach Novak kept us going, until we showed as a group we were going at 100%. For the last 4 or 5 days of preseason practice, Coach added a novelty to the sprints by requiring each of us to carry a car tire over our heads. One trick we learned from the seniors was to hide a slice of lemon in our hemet and chew on it when heading to the weeds. It helped our thirst.

Our coaches were teachers, both in the school system and on the playing field. They taught us technique, but they also taught us about life. There was yelling at practices and in games, but I don’t recall any cursing or name calling. The focus was on discipline and improvement. You were constantly measured against yourself and against others.

As the regular season started, practice eased up a bit, but was still rough. There were one-on-one drills and two-on-one drills. We practiced a lot of contained violence. Those drills measured your physical toughness, but in retrospect, I see how much of it was also about mental toughness. Running weeds continued at the end of every practice, but we were in shape now and there wasn’t as much pain.

At our Friday night games, the last thing we did before the start of the game was a massed “Root, Hog, or Die” chant around coach Novak. I didn’t know it at the time, but “Root, Hog, or Die” is an American phrase dating from the early 1800s. Historically, it became an expression of American self reliance. When we yelled the phrase, we were psyched and ready to play. Our team’s “self reliance” was at a maximum. Kevin Galley, our quarterback, recently said to me – “Novak’s approach, consciously or otherwise, fostered a very tight bond among all of our teammates. With only 32 players, everyone mattered”. Mike Stone, one of our captains and the team’s only all-state selection simply said “we had each other’s back”.

At game halftimes, you always wore your helmet in the locker room. This was to show you were ready to play, and also in case Coach Novak “tapped” you on the head for special instructions. I recall more than a few “taps”, particularly in close games.

The season progressed and the temperature dropped as September became October. Our hard work was paying off, with two, three, four and then five wins in a row. Finally, it was time for a showdown with our conference rivals, Sterling. Both teams were 6-0. Down 14-6 at halftime, the locker room was loud. Among my memories is Coach Novak grabbing Tom Gross by the face mask and explaining explicitly what he wanted Tom to do to the Sterling player opposite him. When the second half started, we pushed hard, eventually coming back in the fourth quarter to win 20-14. Normally, the local newspaper recognized one back and one lineman for their play, but the paper commended the entire team for their outstanding performance in the Sterling game.

We ended that year 9-0-0. I lettered as a backup, an award normally reserved for players with high playing time, or doing special feats on the field. I had done neither. At the start of the year Coach Novak told us it took the effort of the whole team to go undefeated, and if we went undefeated, everyone would letter. He honored his word.

1971 was Coach Novak’s 25th and final year as coach and he retired at the end of the season. Ralph Bednar, a local sportswriter, said in his column the week of the retirement, “Novak is a hard man in football practice. He may make it tough on you, but as you look back, you probably see where all his hardness conditioned you for life today. Life isn’t easy and nothing should be handed out on a silver platter. Hard work is the answer”.

Times have changed and as my friend and teammate Phil Godfrey says “that style of coaching wouldn’t pass muster today, but it worked then”. We’ve all gotten a bit smarter over the years. Did Coach Novak abuse us? For my part, the answer is an emphatic no. He was tough on us and didn’t coddle us. He would yell and get in your face. He never pretended to be your friend in practice, but there was no doubt he was our coach and leader. In addition to football, we learned about teamwork, discipline, toughness, never giving up, and striving for a goal that was by no means certain. I like to think it was good preparation for my time at West Point, and throughout life.

Kevin Galley commented to me “Our team was certainly not the most talented Novak had during his coaching tenure, but we clearly had an abundance of tenacity that served us well on the field, and afterwards”. I think Kevin was right. As I’ve looked at my teammates and their lives, I see a group with good fortune. There are successful lawyers, judges, business owners, executives, engineers, managers, farmers, teachers, and yes, coaches. I think Coach Novak helped make and mold us. I feel pretty lucky to have known him, and to have played football for him. Talking with teammates, I believe most feel the same way. It may have taken some of us more than a few years after that season to gain a full appreciation for what he gave us.

Root, Hog, or Die….

_________________

Coach Novak was the Pirate’s head football coach from 1947-71. He compiled a record of 168-45-11, with 14 conference champions in those 25 seasons. Ten of those teams went undefeated and seven were perfect. In all of those years, I doubt anyone called him “Boom Boom” to his face. As a side note, the 1971 football team was elected to the OHS Hall of Fame in 2016.

** Special thanks to Kevin Galley and Phil Godfrey for their additions to this blog. Their review and input was very helpful.

For the record, Howard and I were not among those arrested for illegal drugs, weapons charges, aggravated assault, or trying to illegally bring stage equipment in to a rock concert. We did, however, score some mighty fine Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine.

It was July 3rd, 1972, the summer before our senior year in high school. I don’t remember whether it was Howard or I who first heard the news about the displaced Rock Festival. Promoters scheduled an outdoor rock concert called the “Spirit of ‘76 Rock Festival” at the Bailey farm near Peoria, Illinois. The headliners were the New Riders of the Purple Sage and REO Speedwagon, and they were expecting over 30,000 attendees. The New Riders had played the Hollywood Bowl just two weeks before with The Grateful Dead, and people were excited.

Unfortunately, the local government was not excited. Or perhaps they were overexcited. In either case, an injunction was filed and the concert promoters were told they could not hold the festival anywhere in Peoria County. Not to be outdone, the promoters found a new location on a farm near Streator Illinois, which was about 10 or 15 miles from where Howard and I lived in Ottawa. The festival was to start either July 3rd or 4th. On Sunday, July 2nd, the promoters told those already gathering for the festival in Peoria to head north to the new location near Streator.

This is when fortune smiled on us. My folks were out of town on vacation and left me at home in charge of my two sisters, Roberta and Tanya. I also had my dad’s work car, a three-on-the-column ‘65 Dodge Dart. We immediately decided to go to the festival the next day, party and listen to music for a while, and then drive home with no one the wiser.

What Howard and I didn’t know was that another injunction was filed that day in LaSalle County and a judge had already banned the festival from taking place at the alternate location near Streator. As people were arriving from Peoria, the police weren’t allowing them to go to the farmer’s field for the concert, but were instead channeling them to the Sandy Ford Conservation Area, halfway between Streator and Grand Ridge. In fact, they arrested several people attempting to bring stage equipment into the Conservation Area, a violation of the injunction. In the meantime, more and more people were arriving for the festival.

Oblivious to all of this, Howard and I met on the morning of the 4th and started driving towards Streator, looking for the rock festival. We knew about where it was, and figured we could follow the traffic when we got close. Sure enough, we were a couple of miles south of Grand Ridge and saw lots of traffic turning off of Route 23 onto a small road. We turned onto the road, and joined the throng. I think the road turned to gravel, but in any case we eventually pulled off on the side of the road and parked, just as everyone else was doing. I seem to remember seeing police, but they weren’t a big presence.

From the car, we walked a mile or so down the road. No one was taking money or tickets for entry. We eventually arrived at an open field, where a band was playing on a makeshift stage. There was a big crowd, along with tents, cars and vans scattered about. People were drinking, smoking, laughing and generally having a good time. Howard and I wandered around and finally asked a guy where we could buy something to drink. He told us he had some extra Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine if we were interested. We quickly bought a bottle and settled in to listen to the music.

We watched a couple of bands play, drank our wine and generally felt very cool. We met and talked with several in the crowd, although at 17 and 16, we were younger than just about everyone there. As a side note, the girls/women ALL seemed older than us, which was somewhat intimidating ;-). I don’t remember any fights or problems, just that the music was pretty good, and there were lots of people. The news at the time saw it a bit differently and said that “hippies” were gathering at the festival and people needed to be careful. News reports in Streator and Ottawa advised local stores to close down.

As evening approached, neither the New Riders nor REO had played yet, but we had to leave. Either Howard had to check in with his folks, or I had to take my sisters to the fireworks that night. We paid for a couple more bottles of Boone’s Farm and walked to the car. By now there were vehicles everywhere and it was hard to turn around and get out, but we eventually made it home in one piece. Unfortunately, one of the bottles of wine leaked on the back seat of my dad’s car, and caused me to have a mild panic attack. Luckily, dad never noticed the wine stain and our trip stayed secret.

Adults around Ottawa were pretty worried about the “hippies” causing trouble, or being a bad influence on our town’s youth. After our day at the festival, Howard and I suffered no apparent ill effects and seemed to turn out OK. Heck, after a few years, we even outgrew our taste for Strawberry Hill wine.

*****

I flashed on this fest recently when Howard was meeting with an old friend of his from the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. For some reason, seeing them together in a photo made me think of the festival. I decided to do some research and see what really happened there. You can read the article included here and it’s pretty funny. It turns out the festival wasn’t authorized and in fact neither the promoter, nor most of the scheduled bands made it to Streator. According to news reports on the 5th of July, neither REO Speedwagon, nor the New Riders of the Purple Sage showed at the fest in Streator. Instead, local bands arrived, along with a couple of the smaller original bands, and they crafted a stage and held the festival. There were only around 20 arrests. Somewhere between 6-15,000 were there and it sounds like the police shut the whole thing down late on the evening of the 4th, sometime after Howard and I departed.

As Howard and I were recently discussing that day, I found out that he returned to the fest the next day on his bicycle. There was still someone there selling Boone’s Farm out of the back of a truck. Howard snagged two bottles and returned home a bit later. I think we drank the wine with friends the next weekend at the Butler House in Varland Park. Ahhh, youth.

**** Special thanks to Howard Johnson for verifying or correcting my memory about some of this blog.

As many of you know, my sister-in-law Cindy passed away three months ago on April 30th, 2018. It was not unexpected, but was nonetheless too soon. In February of this year she was diagnosed with cancer and given six to nine months to live. She passed away just over two months later in April.

I first met Cindy when she was thirteen, way back in the summer of ‘72. In all of the time that has passed since then, the one thing I’ve known consistently about Cindy is, as Cathy says, she has always marched to her own drum. She lived most of her life outside the box.

With my military and corporate background, I suppose I’ve lived much of my life inside the box. In spite of our different approaches to life, or maybe because of them, we loved each other in our own way, as you often do with members of your family, or extended family. I can’t say that I always liked what Cindy was doing at a particular time in her life, but I always loved her.

Her remembrance was held in Alabama on June 10th. We gathered together to celebrate her life. Friends and family were there, including cousins and three of Cindy’s four surviving uncles. Bonnie and Cathy both spoke eloquently about Cindy, her life, and their relationships with her. There was much story telling, some funny, some sad, and more than a few margaritas were drank that day in her honor. At Cindy’s request, Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky” was played, allowing us to reminisce about our youth and leaving us with feelings of hope and redemption.

I think there is always an extra bit of sadness when someone dies young, as Cindy did. Having said that, at the remembrance enough time had passed since her death, and we were able to celebrate her life among us and our memories of her.

And now she has been gone for three months. For my part, I will remember the good times we did share over the years. And I will think of Ecclesiastes 5:18, both for Cindy, and for myself –

“Even so, I have noticed one thing, at least, that is good. It is good for people to eat well, drink a good glass of wine, and enjoy their work – whatever they do under the sun – for however long God lets them live.”

Peace be with you Cindy. Thanks for helping me remember to celebrate the good things in life.

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** This version of Ecclesiastes 5:18 came from the New Living Translation of the Bible.