When author Steven P. Locke was a twelve-year-old boy growing up in Canal Winchester, Ohio, he witnessed something extraordinary-a championship football season, coached by his father Mike, that for a brief moment captivated a small Ohio town. A combination memoir and sports history, Little Locke and the Mighty Indians of 1975 chronicles the high school football team's winning year from the perspective of the coach's son. It paints a portrait of the town and its people as it was at the time-the way people lived, the music they listened to, the television shows they watched, their politics, and the mores of the time. It also focuses on the ten-game season-how football was practiced and played, the grueling nature of two-a- days, his father's coaching style, the growing attention paid to the team as each victory led to more pressure to succeed the following week, and the town that followed and cheered them on in summer heat, driving rain, bitter cold, and disappointment. A snapshot of a town, its people, and their way of life in the second half of the twentieth century, Little Locke and the Mighty Indians of 1975 provides a firsthand look into the sense of wonderment and excitement of the experience from the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy

Little Locke and the Mighty Indians of 1975

By Steven P. Locke

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Steven P. Locke
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4345-0

Chapter One

MY ROOM: 1975

Asleep in the down of summer, at that light Cricket's uplept, blinking their feet, and frogs Trilled in their valley ponds. (Joseph Langland - Aria for Flute and Oboe)

"Steven Paul Locke! Get down here this instant!" Summoned by all three names is universal-code for the parental hammer to fall. In my case it fell often but was exasperated when one of my friends – Greg Bruce – happened to be on hand for execution. Not that Greg witnessed an embarrassing scene but rather he learned my full name - Steven Paul Locke. At the time – 1975 – 'Pollock' jokes were all the rage for those of us about to enter junior high school; and the alliteration 'Paul-Locke' was more than close enough to 'Pollock' to merit weeks of torment.

The fact that I was even in my bedroom indicated malfeasance. As a teen I spent considerable time cloistered within its walls, but as a kid couldn't bear the confinement, disappearing before bedtime only when guilty of some heinous transgression. Unbeknownst to yours truly, therefore, and very much like the proverbial canary in the coal mine, an unexplained absence on my part actually heightened Mom's suspicions, facilitating her search for broken furniture, spilt paint or shattered glass.

My second floor bedroom was the first thing guests encountered when reaching the top of our staircase. The staircase itself was small; five steps to a landing - then left and up eight more to the top. An immediate right - my parent's room; a left led down the narrow hallway to the communal bathroom - the vital core of any dwelling containing one or more Lockes. Beyond the all-important family bathroom was the third and final bedroom in the house, and it belonged to my sister – Laura Susanne Locke (Which unfortunately didn't rhyme with anything).

The upstairs doors were made of dark pine; with round, scuffed and faded door knobs surrounded by scuffed and faded rectangular brass plates. The keyholes in the center of those brass plates resembled symbols denoting women's restrooms: round 'head' with the outline of a 'dress' descending from its center. I mention it because I loved playing with their keys - looking as they did in the eyes of a young boy like keys to some lost pirate's treasure chest.

The floors, made of narrow wood planking, were over a half century old in 1975. They creaked and groaned when trod upon, attracted great wisps of dust that settled into its many cracks and grooves, and had an unfortunate tendency to harpoon the unshod with an inexhaustible supply of splinters. Fortunately, Mom had been a battlefield surgeon in a previous life, keeping peroxide, alcohol, tweezers, needle and magnifying glass on hand in a trauma kit for immediate extractions.

When a splinter hit its mark she arrived on scene - having followed the screams - with the speed and dexterity of a MASH surgeon. Indeed, it was not uncommon, about once every month or so, for Mom to stretch one of us out on the couch, steady a throbbing foot propped atop a pillow beneath the reading lamp, and make a thorough examination of some grievous wound; coolly poking, prodding and exploring the soles of our feet for tiny wooden spikes.

My bedroom walls were white – as were all the walls in our house. Two windows, side-by-side, looked out from the western edge of the house, about four feet from the foot of my bed. Those windows dated to the 1920s, and were made of heavy glass containing subtle streaks and indentations. They didn't look or feel like lightweight windows found in homes today. Heavy to begin with, they were also difficult to open; their wooden frames expanding and contracting with the changing seasons. Left ajar without support they sometimes slammed shut with a tremendous thud.

Even closed the windows shook and rattled violently whenever jets from nearby Rickenbacker Air Force Base eclipsed the sound barrier; rewarding residents surrounding the base with reverberating 'sonic booms.' The Air Base was big business, and important to our local economy. In 1940 the US had only 36 large airports nationwide. With the world at war a massive airport building project commenced; within a year 457 new air bases were under construction, and Rickenbacker was one of those, though it started out in 1942 as Lockbourne Army Air Base.

Located 11 ½ miles from Canal Winchester, many Air Force families lived in nearby Groveport and CW. Primarily an air refueling facility, Rickenbacker served in North America's Strategic Air Command, (SAC) from 1951 to 1979; their jets and tankers were very familiar to area residents. Two of my best friends were Air Force Brats and the base was an integral part of our daily lives. Besides Rickenbacker's planes enhancing the general din, I periodically misjudged how far to pull down the window shutters. Heavy shutters like those are rare today but in the 1970s were common.

Coated in some weird wax-paper texture; attached by string with a small loop to move each shutter up and down; they were temperamental - possessing minds of their own. In fact, our shutters retaliated if not treated with kid gloves, shooting upward in an attempt to eclipse the speed of sound, spinning violently - round and round - until it got it out of its system. The window panes in my room were covered in yellow, lead-based paint that flaked off easily in thick malleable chunks when scraped with one's fingernails. Despite the window's appearance they were evidently made to last as we never had one break.

In the 1970s only 35% of American homes had air conditioning and the Locke Clan was not among that coveted minority. Without air conditioning or ceiling fans our windows usually remained open day and night during the summers. Mercifully, a great Mulberry Tree stood outside my bedroom window providing shade and relief from the sun. At night I would lie awake watching its branches move in the breeze.

Streetlights behind the Mulberry shone through its leaves; creating weird shapes that sometimes looked like the moon hiding within its canopy. Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion as the moon was big news in the 1970s. The continuing Apollo missions appeared simultaneously on all three TV networks. One year I even got a 'G.I. Joe Astronaut,' complete with plastic space capsule for Christmas. When you're a kid the world is truncated, closer; more immediate. Things like leaning against car windows on long trips in the back seat, experiencing the sensation of heightened inner-ear vibrations as your head jiggles against glass, are very real. To that end I spent most summer nights gazing out those windows imagining the moon and the men who walked upon it just beyond our Mulberry tree.

A small closet to the right of the windows housed Dad's ties, dress shirts and slacks. During the workweek, lying in bed in the early morning, half asleep and half awake, I'd watch him select ties from the tie rack hanging inside of the closet door. Always quiet, he stood there every weekday tying his tie before descending the stairs and going off to work.

At the foot of the back closet wall, beyond Dad's ties and clothes, was a tiny door; a sort of closet-within-a-closet used to access attic storage. And that tiny door impacted my imagination entirely out of proportion to its diminutive size. Only four years old when first moved into that bedroom my preternaturally agitated mind ran wild when considering that closet-within-the-closet. I therefore kept both...