The Gauntlet

I was never much of a jock. At 12 years old I was six feet. My dad put me in little league when I was 10. He was from Kansas, and in Kansas baseball is as much of a religion as is football in Texas. I played little league for two years and got on base once.

That night, I was struck by an errant pitch and was, thusly, advanced to first base. I never saw second, third or home in little league. I struck-out each and every time I was at bat for two straight years. The exquisite poetry of constantly striking out and only getting on base by being struck is by no means lost upon me. By the by, the batters after me struck-out, too. I was left stranded on first. But my dad yelled to the point of me blushing just because his boy finally got on base.

Yep, the blushing black boy.

My father was a rare breed in many respects. Pursuant to this fact, he became a corporal in the United States Marine Corps within two years; almost unheard of at the time. As such, he became what is known as a Non-Lethal Combat Instructor at a time when white boys did not “cotton” to taking orders and instruction from Niggers. Especially in an unpleasant way and anyone that has ever encountered a Naval or USMC Drill Instructor knows exactly WTF I am talking about.

In any event, and for a plethora of reasons, he taught me to box at a very early age. He knew that the only way that he could protect me was by teaching me to protect myself...because no one else would. Not then, not now. The good news is that he did a most thorough job, likely because his mode of instruction was rather uncompromising.

And potentially painful.

Pop was a Golden Gloves champion before entering the corps and started prize fighting at the age of 13. He did that to support his family, brought his earnings home to his mother and was a magician with his hands. Nonetheless, such skill was not inherent in me to that degree.

My dad enjoyed hand to hand combat. I did not, do not, and have always attempted to avoid it but life shall starkly present one with things that one can not avoid. Ergo, preparation has its merits. In the final analysis, my boxing skills were not much better than my little league ones; though north. Besides, I didn’t like being hit. Still don’t and that is why when I know that combat, of whatever type, is imminent I strike first if possible. Especially under certain circumstances.

Even as a six foot 12 year old, I was an absolute maladroit at basketball. I can’t have enough time left on this Earth to recount how many “basketball” references I have received over my lifetime; especially from European-Amerikans. I was cut within days when I tried out for basketball in high school. I never liked the sport, but many of my football teammates were what are known as “dual athletes” (guys that were formidable in multiple sports) and urged me to try out for the team. I couldn’t make a free throw and, true story, my ten year old daughter beat the snot out of me at basketball in 2010 (she is five foot five...and I was trying to win). Perhaps, being a book jockey, if they had requested I throw a book into the godforsaken hoop I might have faired better.

But all was not lost; though there may be nothing to find, ultimately.

The Gauntlet

In spite of and, indeed, contrary to the aforementioned verifiable facts, I was quite proficient at one sport. That sport was Amerikan football. And though, as previously articulated, I prefereth not the mano-a-mano violence of boxing I absolutely adored the violence of football; which is the most violent team sport in the world. My attitude about football, however, has undergone deep changes recently but that is another essay.

Entirely.

In any event, as I matriculated to higher levels of the game (high school, college) there came something known as “hell-week.” Hell-week was just that…hell. Hell-week is also colloquially known as “two-a-days.”

Hell week typically occurs in the weeks leading up to the start of the fall season, during the final phase of summer training camp. It is a period of intense, twice-a-day practices designed to push players and prepare them physically and mentally for the upcoming season. The exact timing can vary, but it generally takes place in late July or early August; the last and most difficult part of preseason training. Full pads, helmet (hat), full contact, 100 degrees and smog with everyone involved absolutely miserable. Including the coaches.

The day began at the crack of dawn and continued for five or six hours until noon. There would be a brief two hour respite (for lunch and the ever present salt tablets) and then the second half of the day would run from then until dusk. During this period there were all manner of horrifically violent drills; three of which stand out in my mind. One of them was called “The Gauntlet” and it was the one I dreaded most.

Now, one must understand that I started high school at the age of 12, and there is a huge physical difference between a 12 year old boy freshman and his 14 or 15 year old peers. This difference, due to nature and growth, becomes exponentially greater each year. By the time I was a senior at 15, I was playing against quasi-grown men 17 and 18 years old.

Nonetheless I “started,” or was “first string,” on varsity for three straight years. I wasn’t the biggest player but, if you had pads on, that hat on and a different jersey, I was going to knock the living shit out of you. Even if it meant self injury because, you see, I wanted my opponent looking for me the next time he dared come my way. If he’s concentrating on me, he is not concentrating on his mission. Quite simple, from a tactical standpoint.

The three drills (now outlawed in most places) were called: Man-makers, The Bullring and The Gauntlet. Man-makers were a piece of cake. Basically, it was a one-on-one hitting drill from five yards apart. The Bullring was a drill in which the entire team became a huge circle and you would be placed in the middle of it. The coach would then start barking out numbers, and wherever that dude was in that circle he was coming to level you. So, in a paranoid frenzy, you would have your head on a turret wondering where the contact was coming from. But like the Man-maker it was one guy at a time, though in rapid succession. Not fun, but tolerable. Then there was The Gauntlet.

I was absolutely terrified of The Gauntlet. Unlike the two drills previously mentioned, The Gauntlet wasn’t one man at a time. It was several. All meaning to kill you. Allow me to expound.

Imagine a long narrow alley, of sorts, with twenty men on each side spaced about an arm’s length apart. As you look down this long alleyway, the coach hands you the ball and you must now take it all the way to the end of that alley. From the time you begin your journey these boys are teeing off on you. Got knocked down? Get your ass back up and keep going; and you will keep going until you reach…

the… end… of… the… line.

The Iron Glove and The Long Way Home

The term “gauntlet“ originally referred to the heavy, armored gloves worn by medieval knights. The name comes from the Middle French word gantelet, which is a diminutive of gant, meaning “glove”. The connection to “iron glove” is a descriptive one.

The gauntlet was, in essence, a specialized glove made from iron or steel plates designed for maximum protection and flexibility in combat. Gauntlets were crafted with individual iron or steel plates that overlapped like fish scales and were connected by rivets, allowing for articulated movement. This construction provided superior defense for the hands and wrists during battle compared to earlier chainmail, while still allowing the dexterity needed to wield weapons effectively.

All types of weapons; from the sword, to the pen.

Thus, the gauntlet was a literal iron glove used for medieval warfare. The phrase “iron glove” is a direct description of materials and function. These metal gloves were expensive and often indicated the high status of the wearer, such as a noble or high-ranking person. I sure hope so since I, willingly or unwillingly, must wear them.

Home At Last

I have not published this piece as regalia about sports, racism or violence. It has been written as a testimony to life itself and I thank the reader for suffering a rather circuitous route to its destination. Over the past five weeks, I have been bludgeoned with everything from “Flurona,” to an elderly (and estranged) parent that is in steep decline that I must now initiate conservatorship proceedings for (should they survive that process), to the loss of priceless possessions due to the incompetency of others. I even lost a four-legged friend. I have run the gauntlet, indeed.

During this period of “trial and tribulation,” I have come to realize that I have been running the gauntlet my entire life. My life’s journey began at its destination. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. “Under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloodied, but unbowed.”

The intensity of this relatively brief span of time has warranted a great deal of reflection, sorrow and resolve. Football is a war of attrition, life is a war of attrition. When the coach handed you that ball at the beginning of The Gauntlet each brutal blow took something out of you. The wind knocked out of you, your “snot-box” bloodied, lip busted open, ribs cracked and bruised whilst you became more weary each step knowing that a train was about to hit you.

Several trains.

Sometimes, half way down that alley, you’d look up and say to self “fuck this, it ain’t worth it.” Yet there, for some, was a refusal to be vanquished; at least at that moment. So we continue. Eventually those hits add up and we are unable to go forth, but that time is not now. Tomorrow, perhaps.

This essay is really a statement of profound humility and gratitude to the many subscribers that have reached out to me during my hiatus from publishing our newsletter daily. Black men must react to this society in ways that many do not understand (nor do they care to), and one of the things that we tend not to do is show any manner of infirmity or weakness. That’s because we are always running the gauntlet.

For paid subscribers, please contact me so that I may issue a refund for this month and I thank each and everyone of you for granting me an audience.

Lastly, I am the most colossal Steely Dan fan that ever lived. I even named my first child after a Steely Dan album. On that album is a syncopated tune called “Home At Last.” From every aspect: musicianship, orchestration, arrangement, harmonics, post-production engineering and lyrics it is one of the heaviest things I have ever heard. I stated earlier in this piece that “My life’s journey began at its destination.” The refrain from the song follows and I trust the cohesive nexus to this article will not be lost upon my brilliant readers.

Well the danger on the rocks is surely past,
Still I remain tied to the mast
Could it be that I have found my home at last?
Home at last.