The Hecla Rockets quarterback unloaded the ball before I got there. Dang. Screen pass. Downfield, a rangy receiver was running horizontally, trying to pick his way past a fence line of Frederick Viking defenders. I suppose I had a 30-yard run to get to him. A full head of steam. I imagined the ball flying free. We intersected at helmet-rattling full speed. I remember a tornadic blur of arms and legs.
“Great hit, Bender!” my buddy Bernie Witte exclaimed, jerking me to me feet. I immediately folded, gasping for breath, that awful feeling when you’ve had the wind knocked out of you and you’re sure you’re gonna die. Spoiler alert: I didn’t.
As I lay there, gasping, I watched two Hecla coaches escort the wobbly receiver off the field. The ball was still firmly lodged under his arm. By then, our coach Ken Pudwill was hovering over me with my concerned teammates.
Pudwill loosened my belt, which was the cure all for all injuries in those days.
“Did you get it in the cookies?” he asked.
“Gahhh.”
Everyone cracked up.
My list of glorious moments on the gridiron is short and memories involve mostly comic relief. As a teenager, you don’t realize you’re making memories, and if the team is special, those memories will echo for decades and will be spoken of with respect.
In Frederick, SD, there was the 1960’s basketball team that lost an epic third place game at state that everyone agreed was essentially the championship game. They remain legends.
My dad spoke of the great Ashley Aces basketball teams of the 1950’s led by the great Otto Raile. They lost one or two titanic battles to Hettinger and their towering star, John Butterfield. My dad remembered him, too, and when I was living in Hettinger, together one night, we watched the marvelous team that Butterfield was coaching. They had a front line with a couple of 6-5 forwards and a 6-8 center. As he watched them run the floor, my dad said, “That’s not a high school team—that’s a college team.”
Butterfield remembered Raile, too. By then, Otto was a myth in my mind. So, a few years ago when he was invited back for induction into the Ashley Hall of Fame for championship athletes—he was also a track star—I was eager to meet him. When I told him who I was, he got a bit sentimental. My father has been gone for 30 years, and it hadn’t dawned on me how much Otto revered him. It wasn’t just my father admiring a great athlete. They were friends.
Great moments. Great friendships. Achievements. Disappointments. These are the things we carry forward, the things that bind communities together.
I’ve been honored to walk the sidelines of the South Border Mustangs (Ashley and Wishek) who have been knocking on the door to history for three years. Each year, they’ve gotten closer.
I’ve heard the conversations between players and coaches, the play calls, seen the look in their eyes, the resilience, as they’ve faced challenges. And a few laughs, too. Along the way, they’ve settled old scores with longtime nemeses. Those teams who always seem to have your number.
These players have helped transform the culture of a once-moribund program. And, on Friday at 9:10 a.m., the 12-0 Mustangs will be playing the North Prairie Cougars in the Dakota Bowl for the Class B 9-man championship. Such moments, such opportunities are beyond rare, and they’re never a gift. They’re always earned.
Shortly after I arrived in Hettinger, the Black Devils won a wrestling championship, but I didn’t really grasp how monumental it was. I never wrestled, never understood the sport. But Coach Randy Burwick’s enthusiasm, and Assistant Theo Schalesky’s patient tutelage drew me in.
When I arrived in McIntosh County, it coincided with the first two Ashley-Wishek state wrestling championships. I’ve witnessed angst, upsets, and unlikely finishes. And more banners.
These are the things these kids will reminisce about decades from now. The rekindling of friendships and the memory of uncommon effort, of giving it all.
© Tony Bender, 2023
