Funny Football Fail: How My Groin Injury Became Local Legend

A legendary one-liner turned my groin injury into local folklore.

Every high school football game feels like the Super Bowl when you're seventeen and the whole county's watching. But that night in Fairland, with the score tied and our season on the line, I had no idea I was about to become the star of the show for all the wrong reasons.

The Set-up: Friday Night Lights and Small Town Sports

The Fairland Owls had a packed home crowd, and their boos rained down on us as we jogged onto the field. Under the bright stadium lights, we looked ready for battle—cleaned up, geared up, and determined to prove ourselves. Once the whistle blew, the game took over.

Back then, football gear wasn't sleek like it is today. It was medieval. Our helmets weighed about five pounds, soaked with summer sweat and rattling like a bucket of bolts every time we hit somebody. Shoulder pads were massive (about the size of a compact car hood) and about as comfortable. They didn't fit so much as hang off of you like borrowed suits at a funeral. Every pass, every block, you were fighting your own equipment just as much as the other team.

The Medical Plan: “Walk it Off”

And if you got hurt? Well, the only medical plan was "walk it off" or "get yanked back into action." I once dislocated a finger during roll drills in practice. Coach Newton didn't even flinch. He grabbed my hand, gave it a sharp tug, popped it back in place, and said, "There, you're good to go." I just stood there, blinking, mumbling, "Thanks, Coach," like I'd just gotten my oil changed instead of my knuckle snapped back into place.

But that night in Fairland, it wasn't my fingers I had to worry about. I was at center, crouched over the ball, and Dennis lined up at right guard beside me. My heart thudded in my ears beneath my helmet, nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. We were on the gridiron now, where mischief had to give way to grit and focus. Or at least, it was supposed to.

The Play That Changed Everything

By the third quarter, it was a slugfest: tie game, sweat stinging my eyes, mud caking our uniforms. Every hit rattled my bones, but adrenaline kept me going. Dennis and I held the line, channeling our earlier restless energy into each block. We were determined to make up for the trouble we'd caused. Midway through the quarter, Coach called a sweep right. Risky, but if it worked, it could break the game open. We broke the huddle and got into formation. I glanced at Dennis, and he gave a quick nod. This was our chance to redeem ourselves, maybe even be small town heroes.

"Hut!" I snapped the ball and pulled, just like the play called for. I was supposed to block the defensive end while Dennis took the nose tackle. Kind of a weird scheme, but hey—that's how Coach drew it up. Only Dennis pulled too.

In a blur, he crossed right in front of me. I'd only taken two steps when it happened. Screwed-in cleats. Full sprint. Right between my legs.

The Heat-Seeking Missile Finds Its Target

Dennis's cleat found the sweet spot like a heat-seeking missile. One second I was charging forward, the next, crumpled like a lawn chair. White-hot pain exploded through my gut and dropped me like a sack of potatoes. For a few seconds, I couldn't breathe. The world spun. Bright lights, crowd noise, and then nothing but the scream locked in my throat. The play kept going, but I curled into the turf, hands clutching my hurting groin, trying not to pass out.

Dennis sprawled out beside me, having tripped on my collapse. He scrambled toward me, panic in his voice. "Oh man, I'm sorry, Bub! I'm really sorry!"

The refs hovered. Whistles blew. Players circled. Nothing quiets a crowd like a kid who's not getting up. Coach Newton trotted over as Dennis helped me roll onto my back. I must've looked ridiculous: mud-smeared face, helmet twisted sideways, both hands glued to my painful crotch.

Groin Injury: From Embarrassing Pain to Instant Fame

Coach knelt beside me. "What happened here, son?" Dennis, breathless, blurted, "I—I think I got him in the nu... uh, family jewels, Coach." The refs winced and stifled a laugh. Coach Newton exhaled like he'd dodged a bullet. The corners of his mouth twitched. Then came the moment that made local legend. Coach raised both hands to the crowd like Moses parting Rednecks, and bellowed, "Don't worry, folks—they'll drop in the morning!"

Silence. Then thunderous laughter. Even a few Fairland fans joined in. Me? I was still curled up like a cooked shrimp, face on fire, pride somewhere back on the fifty-yard line. I wanted to disappear into the mud.

Leave it to Coach Newton to turn my humiliation into a punchline for the ages. A legend was born on that fifty-yard line, even if I had to crawl away from it.

The Comeback (Sort Of)

Eventually, with help, I hobbled to my feet. The crowd applauded—whether out of sympathy or lingering amusement, I wasn't sure. My legs were rubbery and I walked off bow-legged, like I'd just dismounted a horse. Dennis was at my side, apologizing under his breath with every step. I was in too much agony to do more than grimace and pat his helmet to let him know I'd live.

The game resumed without me. I collapsed onto the bench as a half-size sophomore backup ran in to play center. I sat with an ice pack on my sore crotch, waves of dull pain still pulsing. Coach Floyd stormed over, face like thunder. I braced for a lecture or maybe a crack about the pond. Instead, he just squeezed my shoulder.

"Hang in there, Glover," he said softly. "You did good out there till that... hiccup." I managed a weak nod. He turned to walk away—but I caught the twitch in his cheek, the little snort he tried to swallow. Newton had clearly filled him in. Then, with perfect timing (like a back-beat drumroll), he tossed over his shoulder, "We'll see about getting you a new cup tomorrow. Maybe one with a chin strap."

"'Hang' in there. Chin strap." Real funny, Coach. Everybody's a comedian tonight.

The Long Ride Home

From the sideline, I watched Dennis and the rest of the team dig deep. Maybe they were fired up by anger or by Coach Newton's one-liner, but they played like men possessed. I made it back on the field after a couple of plays, didn't want splinters in my butt from sittin' on the bench, worked too hard for that. And darn sure didn't want a sophomore doin' a man's job. We fought hard, but ended up losing by six points, I think. I don't remember the final score, but I remember the bell ringing. Uh, buzzer.

The Aftermath of a Sore Groin

After the game, amid the locker room chaos, Dennis found me with a sheepish half-smile. "I really am sorry," he mumbled, staring at his feet. I gingerly flicked a bit of athletic tape at him. "You owe me a new cup," I joked. We both cracked up, the tension finally broken.

That night, boarding the bus home (a little dryer, and a whole lot wiser), I replayed the day's absurd chain of events in my mind. We'd started by diving into a filthy pond against orders and ended with an accidental kick to the groin in front of half the county. In one day, we managed to infuriate our coach, gross out the cheerleaders, injure each other, and lose one of the biggest games of the year. But hey, Coach called it. They'd drop in the morning. And Coach was right—by morning, I could almost walk straight again.

Looking back, I realize Dennis didn't just kick me in the groin that night—he kicked me straight into small-town legend. I wish I had a dollar for every time someone asked me, "Have they dropped yet?" over the next forty years.

💥 Stories That Stick

Growing up in Picher, Oklahoma—before it became "the most toxic town in America"—we thought we were bulletproof. Every scraped knee, every busted bike, every legendary humiliation was just another chapter in our ongoing war against gravity, common sense, and anything that looked remotely safe.

This is just one tale from Barefoot and Bulletproof: The Dirty Little Glover Boys—a memoir about two brothers who thought they could outrun a town that was literally collapsing beneath their feet.

📬 Want more stories like this? Subscribe to Chat Rat Chronicles and get new tales from Barefoot and Bulletproof as I publish them.

🗣 Got your own legendary sports fail or sibling disaster? Drop it in the comments—let's trade battle scars and see who walked away more bow-legged.