THE AUTHOR’S STATE CHAMPIONSHIP FOOTBALL TEAM. THE YOUNG DAVID DEAVEL IS IN THE BACK ROW UNDER THE STAIRS WITH HIS FINGER IN THE AIR TO THE RIGHT OF NUMBER 81

Thanksgiving is a time for memories. If you’re like me, you probably spent the whole weekend eating leftover turkey and continuing to take joy in the things for which thankfulness grows more powerful over the years. I’m supremely grateful for so many gifts, particularly those of my youth in small-town Indiana. Here’s a Thanksgiving memory that keeps coming back to me, one that marks an important anniversary this year. I have been remembering how, thirty-five years ago, on the day after Thanksgiving in 1989, my high school football team won the Class A Indiana Football State Championship. And, though it’s easy for our memories to be distorted by the passage of time, I think I have a claim to the responsibility for that win.

Though the Hoosier State is known for its basketball obsession, northern Indiana high schools, with Notre Dame Stadium shaking down the thunder from the surrounding skies, take football just as seriously. Bremen High School, a half-hour south of the Golden Dome, is such a place. Its own gridiron beginnings were more recent but no less legendary.

Though the Bremen Lions had a football team early on, it was suspended in 1907 due to nationwide worry about the sport’s violence. It was restarted by Don Bunge, a 1941 Waterloo High School graduate, paratrooper with the 11^th Airborne Division in World War II’s Pacific Theater, and after the war, captain of the baseball, basketball, and football teams at Indiana Central College (now the University of Indianapolis). Hired away from nearby Walkerton High School in 1952, he began teaching biology and coaching basketball at Bremen. Bunge soon started a track and field program and, in 1955, restarted the football team, which he would coach for thirty-three years. He wasn’t just a coach, however. He built the football field and track himself and was usually the one who had to mow it for the school. It was christened “Bunge Field” while I was still in high school.

Though Coach Bunge never had a state championship, his teams, playing much larger schools in the fearsome Northern Lakes Conference, became known for their indomitable fight and their tendency to knock off teams twice or thrice their size. It was a great honor for any kid in my town to say that he had played on the team and was part of the “Long Green Line.”

Marty Huber, a former player who served as an assistant coach in Bremen for over a decade and then took over the reins, had a shot at a championship very quickly when the 1988 Lions made it all the way to the Hoosier Dome, where the still-newish Indianapolis Colts played and where the high school state finals were played. (It was demolished in 2008.) I was a freshman that year but didn’t see a minute of playing time since our opponent, Sheridan High, ran up the score the entire game. We set a record for most lopsided championship game with a 59-0 loss. Senior Casey Miller was featured in Sports Illustrated’s “Faces in the Crowd” feature for the dubious honor of a record fifteen punts in one game. I don’t remember a single first down.

Which brings us to 1989. With a great many starters returning, there was a lot of talk of a return to the Hoosier Dome with a different outcome. But sunny prospects were dimmed by storm clouds from the beginning. Due to personal issues, Coach Huber stepped down for the year. Coach Bunge came out of retirement to coach the offense and help the remaining coaching staff with the talented but occasionally volatile squad.

Coach Bunge never quite adapted to the locker room playlist of AC DC, Guns ’n’ Roses, and Metallica. But he loved working with the players. 6’4” quarterback Jon Feldman (“Nojjer”), who had been sidelined by an injury early in the previous season, was ready to sling his left-handed passes. Talented receivers Andy Stillson and Ryan Roeder weren’t built like gazelles, but both could move and possessed a bulldog-like hold on the balls they caught. I can still see Stillson’s short legs churning away as cornerbacks tried to pull him down. Nojjer could also throw to Chad Baker, a tall, tough-as-nails tight end who seemed to run over as many people while carrying the ball as he did while prowling from the strong inside linebacker position.

On the ground, Nojjer himself liked to run it up the middle when we got to the goal line. And he could hand it, pitch it, or flick it to his close friend, tailback Mike Damron, a trim, handsome, somewhat goofy talent who had only played defense the year before but was discovered to be a wonder with a ball in his arms. His occasionally casual approach to working out and practicing never seemed to change the fact that, come game time, he would be slicing across the field, flying past his blockers and into open space. He rushed for 955 yards over the year and scored ten touchdowns—despite the fact that he didn’t wear any socks for much of the season.

The fullback I’ll call “Boz,” since he reminded me of the mid-eighties Oklahoma Sooner linebacker Brian Bosworth, known as much for his hairstyles, his controversial words and actions, and confrontational attitude as he was for his bone-rattling tackles. Our Boz didn’t have the original’s Mohawk hairstyle, but instead the then-fashionable feathered hair flowing long in the back. A fearsome outside linebacker as well as a bruising runner and blocker, he had massive thighs and an attitude to boot. He wasn’t afraid to cuss out or get into a shoving match with teammates whom he felt to be disrespecting him or letting the team down.

Boz’s personal play wasn’t the problem. Over the regular season, he not only helped pave the way for Damron to break open but also rushed for 394 yards, scored six touchdowns, and was fifth on the team in tackles. But the chaos created by his sideline and locker room behavior didn’t have a good effect on team morale.

This team, so loaded with talent, lost the opener against nearby larger Northern Lakes Conference rival Northwood 28-27. Not too shabby, but by mid-season we were flagging. Even though the 1989 team was now in the Northern States Conference competing against schools closer to our size, we ended up losing to eventual conference champion Knox and our perennial small-school rival, the Jimtown Jimmies. We squeaked out our final regular season game against John Glenn 28-20. Our regular season record was 5-3. A winning record—but just barely.

As the team’s mood and prospects seemed somewhat rocky, so too did my own. A sophomore trying to make it as a safety at the time, I had gotten some good playing time early on due to some injuries. I was credited with three tackles over the first few games. I had hoped to make the starting line-up as did two of my classmates, linebacker Justin Bogunia and defensive lineman Curtis Meyer. But by mid-season, my varsity play mostly consisted of mop-up quarterback duties in the late quarters, handing off the ball or running it up the middle myself for a yard or two. At that point, I didn’t rise even to the level of utility player but was trying as hard as I could to prove myself worthy.

So it was that, after a first-round playoff win over then perennial conference basement dweller Culver, we were set to play Jimtown, who had just beaten us three weeks before 20-9. (What, I always asked myself, was a “Jimmie”?) Boz had played well against Culver, rushing eight times for 32 yards. But the negative energy he generated continued to be a problem. Picking little fights, bullying younger players, his vibe was not positive.

My own frustration at not being able to earn real playing time was doubled by Boz’s disrespect. On the Thursday before the game, I was playing outside linebacker on the hamburger squad against the starting offense. Boz’s trash talk as he ran over us second- and third-stringers was really becoming irritating.

I began to look for a chance to fight back.

It came when I heard the coaches call out “crossbuck 43,” a play in which the quarterback would turn to the right. With his left hand, he would fake a hand-off to the fullback going to the right side of the line, and then, with attention drawn away, hand off to the tailback going off to the left side of the line. As I was on the side of the line through which Boz would come with his empty arms tucked as if carrying the ball, I decided to take my shot. As Boz came through, expecting to just run a few yards while attention moved to Mike Damron, I put a bead on him and hit him as hard as I could from his right. He went down hard.

Nonchalantly jogging back toward the huddle after play had stopped, I suddenly felt Boz hit me in the back at full speed. He slugged me a couple times before stalking off. One of the coaches who saw what had happened demanded that he apologize to me. His unprintable response earned a trip to the showers.

A bit sore from the late hit, I was nevertheless filled with a sense of triumph. I had stood up to the bully, taken his return blow, and was still standing. If I understood correctly, Boz was told he would not play until he apologized to the coach who reprimanded him—and to me.

To my great surprise and to the surprise of quite a few others, he refused to do either. He simply left the team.

Worry now filled my mind. Would my triumph of standing up to Boz end the team’s hopes for the season? After all, at this point, Boz was the second leading rusher on the team, only 142 yards behind the dashing Damron, and had 28 tackles.

There was talk in the hallways the next day, with a lot of “I heard what you did” comments and looks being directed at me. I put on a brave front but was inwardly terrified. If we lost the Jimtown game, would I get the blame? Receivers coach Mike Kyser had said earlier in the season that if we could get past that team, our chances at winning the state championship were very high.

As it happened, replacing Boz, particularly on offense, didn’t turn out to be that difficult. Freshman Bo Hundt, who had been filling in in the backfield and had already rushed for 223 yards and seven touchdowns, simply took over the position of fullback. Though he would spend most of the Jimtown game blocking and only rush twice for five yards during that nailbiter 17-14 victory, he would score another six touchdowns over the next five games of the playoffs, with 169 more receiving yards and 246 more rushing yards.

The rest of the playoffs were not necessarily easy. But, absent Boz’s recriminations and instigations, the team functioned much more as a unit. We had no true blowout games, but we also had no internal blow-ups. The semi-state championship, played at Southwood in freezing temperatures, was close, but we pulled out a 10-6 victory. There was a harmony to the team that hadn’t been there before Boz’s departure.

Thanksgiving 1989 in Bremen featured plenty of gratitude but also fervent petitionary prayer as the team boarded buses for Indianapolis. The following day in the Hoosier Dome, the crowd seemed small in the stadium, but it included most of the town’s four thousand people. A smart burglar could have made a fortune that weekend.

Our opponent, Springs Valley, was a consolidation of several high schools, including Larry Bird’s French Lick High. They were undefeated that season, but they didn’t stand a chance. Mike Damron ran for 139 yards and two touchdowns; Bo Hundt added 95 yards and a touchdown; and Nojjer Feldman added one of his own. When the final whistle blew, it was a 31-8 victory. We had won the state championship for the first time in Bremen’s history.

We didn’t go back to the Hoosier Dome while I was in high school. I had moved to wide receiver my junior year and rotated in to bring the plays, also getting some regular playing time on defense because of injuries but not starting full time. We lost in the sectional finals to Jimtown that year 25-22.  Only in my senior year would I achieve my goal of being a two-way starter. Bigger and stronger, I ended up as an honorable mention all-conference outside linebacker and a first-team all-conference offensive guard. We made it to the regional finals that year but lost—alas—to Jimtown yet again. This time by the devastating score of 8-7.

A few of the players I played with kept going. Teammates Justin Bogunia and Curtis Meyer went on to college football careers at Evansville University and Manchester University, respectively. Bo Hundt, who became the greatest athletic success our town had, finished his high school career with fantastical statistics: 118 touchdowns, 6031 career rushing yards, and 8321 total offensive yards. He would play football at Ball State. Like the more famous Bo Jackson, however, he was a threat on the baseball field too. After transferring to another college for a year of baseball, he was drafted by the Pittsburgh Pirates. He spent three years in the minor leagues before hanging up his cleats. He went on to a coaching career that included a stint at the helm of the Bremen baseball team where he led our alma mater to a state championship. Today, one of his jobs is as a sports broadcaster for WHME television in South Bend.    

Would we have won if I hadn’t decided to hit back at Boz, leading to his leaving the team? Like all such questions, it’s impossible to answer definitively. But there have always been some people who were watching the team and knew the story who said with a wink that I had played the decisive part. They will find no argument from me. At the very least, I think I can claim to have played a decisive role.

But even if not, I’m still thankful for those days. I look back on both the time and the people with a great deal of affection and sympathy. Having not lived in my hometown since the end of the last millennium, my gratitude for the place where I grew up has only grown greater over the years. And so has my affection for those with and for whom I played. They’ll always be a part of me, both the living and the dead. Most of my teammates and coaches are still alive, but not all. Casey Miller, he of the fifteen punts, died in a car accident on the way back from scouting for the Bremen football team. Mike Damron died young in a motorcycle accident. Coach Bunge kept coming to every football practice until his late nineties. He died last year at the ripe old age of 100.

I haven’t seen Boz since high school. He showed up in my chemistry class at one point to talk to the teacher not long after the events I’ve recalled, causing the class (naturally) to call for a fight. Smart aleck that I am, I said, “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” That made him laugh. He never took revenge on me that year or any other. Years later, I saw his profile on social media. The feathered hair is gone. For that matter, a good bit of the hair is gone. He has several kids of whom he’s proud. He seems to be a serious Christian. He’s done some volunteering, even been a volunteer fireman. My guess is that Boz is somebody with whom I would enjoy sitting down, having a beer, and saying a prayer.     

Even apart from the championship, I give thanks for the small town in which I was raised. The sign at the east side of town coming into Bremen, Indiana, bears the legend, “A Good Town.” That it was and is.

David P. Deavel teaches at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, Texas. A past Lincoln Fellow at the Claremont Institute, he is a Senior Contributor at The Imaginative Conservative. Follow him on X @davidpdeavel