Life as a Sub

Life as a Sub

By Mark Leitheiser

Tournaments, it seems, were created for starters. You know, the starters for each athletic team, the ones who wink at the camera and say, “Hi Mom!” Them.

Yet, there are lots of other athletes, the substitute players, or the “subs” who often get lost in the hoopla, who have just as much skin in the game as the starters. The only difference is their skin is planted on the bench. As our local, state and national tournaments reach fever pitch, I think it’s high time we recognize the substitute players for their efforts as well as the starters. They try hard, they practice hard and they win or lose hard, just like the starters. And let me tell you, I oughta know!

I got my first taste of being a substitute player in elementary school when I tried out for the mighty Washington Warriors basketball team. I never saw the floor. It wasn’t until junior high school, however, that my life as a substitute player really blossomed. Apparently, being short, skinny, slow, dumb, and scared wasn’t the package the seventh-grade football coaches were looking for. The first hint that my football career would be spent on the bench was literally spelled out on the running back depth chart where my place was somewhere in the double digits.

Thankfully, it didn’t take me long to realize the first trick a lifer sub must master is the art of not looking like a sub. Of course, there are many ways to accomplish this and I quickly learned every trick. For example, during an early game with our team hopelessly behind, I was thrown in the game with 48 seconds to go. “Hey Coach, should I win it or just tie it for you today?”

On the first play, I got knocked on my behind but I cleverly rolled around and rubbed grass on my pants before getting up. These stains gave the unsuspecting eye the illusion that I might have actually made a play that day.

While being a substitute player can be hard on the psyche, it can be physically painful too. During the next game- another blowout loss- I got my first carry of the season. As an undeserved gift, Coach called my number but when I tried to run up the middle, an opposing lineman hit me so hard that I wobbled back to the wrong huddle after the play. I would have stayed there too, were it not for a rather rude player who suggested, among other things, I leave their huddle and return to my own.

Still, sometimes a sub’s trials pay dividends. During our last game of the year, we mysteriously found ourselves with a lead- big enough to put me in for a two-point conversion attempt. This was huge! My name would be listed with the scoring stats in the paper and with a junior high school dance on the horizon, what girl could resist a scoring machine like me?

Alas, substitute running backs play behind substitute linemen and substitute quarterbacks and mine fumbled the snap. I never touched the ball and I never got a date for the dance.

Being a sub can also teach valuable, albeit painful life lessons. When the bus left for our first junior high school basketball game, I wasn’t on it. In fact, I wasn’t even given a jersey. The lesson here was clear: it was time to try hockey.

The bench at the hockey arena felt a lot like the one in the gym, only colder but it too had lessons to teach. For example, a player should never dance in front of the opponents’ bench after scoring a lucky goal. During our first game, in Bemidji, I somehow found myself open with the puck on my stick for a breakaway. Not surprisingly, I ended up tripping as I let fly with my best shot. Very surprisingly, I scored and decided a little dance in front of the Bemidji bench to celebrate would be a good idea. As I would soon learn, it wasn’t.

On the very next shift, a Bemidji player hit me so hard I actually did a flip in the air before landing flat on my back on the ice. Think Lucy pulling the ball away from Charlie Brown and you’ll have the idea. When the fog cleared, I opened my eyes to see the entire opposing bench making stabbing motions at me with their sticks while commenting on my face, my game, and my mother. None of these comments was complimentary and no paper in the world would print them. Another lesson had been learned. It was time to hang up my skates.

Finally, I found my sport: track and field. No substitutes here. Every member participated, whether he wanted to or not. Initially, I decided to use my catlike athleticism for the pole vault where I eagerly launched my career as a vaulter at the first meet. The good news: I got second place. The bad news: there were only two vaulters. In time, I figured out that my limited skill set was better suited to distance events on the track than to the pole vault. A teammate kindly told me my sprint looked like I was running the two-mile. Eureka! I had found my new event.

Luckily, my substitution days were over and I surprised everyone, including myself, by extending my running career through college. Still, I haven’t forgotten my days on the bench which is why I hope you’ll appreciate the substitute players on every tournament team. Believe me, they care about their teams just as much as the starters. I oughta know . . .