It's a customary post-game ritual: Football teams form single-file lines at opposite ends of the field and march past each other, exhausted after 48 minutes or more of blocking, tackling, throwing, catching and running; they slap hands in a show of good sportsmanship, as if to say that what just transpired—the smack-talking and vicious hits and, sometimes, the personal fouls and cheap shots—is forgiven and forgotten.
After last year's rough-house, foul-plagued affair, Cheyenne High and Bishop Gorman players met at midfield for the ritual. Handshakes turned to shoves and shoves to punches, escalating into a 20-player brawl. The melee lasted a minute, but its ramifications stretched for weeks, reaching beyond the field and into the offices of the Nevada Interscholastic Athletic Association, the governing body for prep sports, and eventually the courts. A heated rivalry got hotter.
As fate would have it, the two teams met again Friday night, the winner advancing to the Sunset Division final, one step closer to the state championship game—the holy grail of high-school football. Much as last year, the contest was combustible and emotional, with late hits and late-game heroics. As the game ended and the bitter rivals lined up for hand-slaps, another team stepped onto the field: 15 cops, ready to prevent a repeat of last year.
Sports is about rivalries. Where casual observers may see just a physical contest, others recognize broader ramifications. Teams are ambassadors; victories, referendums on moral and lifestyle superiority.
Bostonians' dislike for New York probably has as much to do with their city's perceived kid-brother status as with the Yankees' historical dominance over their Red Sox.
A case can be made that the Dallas Cowboys' victories over their heated rivals, the Washington Redskins, represent triumphs—southern pragmatism over Atlantic liberalism, Republican grit and sensibilities over Democratic finesse and social programming.
At the collegiate level, what are Notre Dame games but battles of good vs. evil? It's piety vs. thuggery when ND plays the University of Miami; devoutness versus SoCal debauchery when it battles the University of Southern California.
And what of high school athletics? A microcosm of its college and pro counterparts, prep sports also includes socioeconomic overtones—rich schools vs. poor school, city school vs. rural school, the suburban school vs. the inner-city school: the haves vs. the have nots.
Across the country, the haves are winning. Big.
A USA Today analysis of 10 sports in 27 regions showed private schools and public schools in the wealthiest neighborhoods win state team championships at more than twice the rate of schools in the least wealthy neighborhoods. Only in Rhode Island did poorer schools win more state crowns; only in Alabama, Louisiana and Vermont did they match wealthier counterparts title for title. Nevada's most affluent schools win state team championships at a 2-to-1 ratio.
So when Gorman, the high-achieving private school with powerhouse alumni, and Cheyenne, the North Las Vegas school formed in the '90s due to overcrowding at other inner-city schools, suit up and play, is athletic supremacy all that's at stake?
Cops. I see them as I pull into the Valley High parking lot (Gorman, lacking its own field, plays at Valley). Fallout from last year's brawl has turned into precaution for this year's contest. Security personnel at the entrance equate the abnormally high police presence to the early '90s, when violence prompted Clark County School District officials to cancel night football basketball games. Better safe than sorry.
Eleven cops and security guards patrol the Gorman side, where fans of both teams must pass through to get their seats. On the Cheyenne side, facing Karen Avenue to the north and Sahara to the east, a handful of cops walk along the stadium's exterior, backs turned to the field, eyeing the streets.
Forty minutes before kickoff, the crowd is small, about 50 people in all, most of them on Gorman's side. Welcome to high school football in Vegas, where, a Gorman fan tells me, sparse attendance is the norm. Where prep footballers in Texas often perform in front of thousands and play championship games in college and NFL stadiums, local players are lucky to crack the 1,000-fan mark. "Cimarron [Memorial High School] used to have a rabid fan base," a referee attending the game as a fan tells me. "Gorman's got a pretty good following too."
Even if attendance and press coverage isn't prime time (Channel 3's news van pays a brief visit), the field is NFL-caliber. Red, white and blue stripes painted on the 50-yard-line, chalk-white lines demarcating the yard markers, the grass Super Bowl ready—a welcome change from uneven, prickly sod that carpets many local prep stadiums. Closer inspection reveals Valley's grass isn't grass at all, but synthetic turf; soft and rubbery, yet grass-like. The PA system is concert-worthy, almost too loud, like coming to a game and stumbling upon a block party. A few Gorman helmets nod when the hard rock tunes play; LL Cool J's "Head Sprung" inspires minor dancing in the Cheyenne camp.
The teams warm up in typical fashion: Offensive lineman practice blocking. Defensive linemen explode out of three-point stances. Kickers kick. Quarterbacks throw, receivers catch and running backs evade imaginary tacklers. Thirty yards away, Cheyenne's quarterbacks are having trouble with accuracy, overthrowing receivers or missing them completely.
Gorman's cheerleaders arrive at 36 minutes 'til kickoff. The referees show up at 28 'til. Twelve minutes 'til and the Gorman bleachers are filling rapidly. Family of the players. Current students. Alumni with faded letterman's jackets. Former Gaels football players here to here to support their alma mater. Though mostly white, the Gorman faithful exhibit some diversity: dozens of black parents in school paraphernalia (hats and sweaters) are sporting Gorman-emblazoned trinkets (seat cushions and bench warmers). Young Gorman supporters are fashionably urbane, either in hip-hop apparel (Roc-A-Wear and Sean John, mostly), casual denim or looking like they walked right off a Gap commercial.
Twenty minutes 'til: Cheyenne's cheerleaders arrive. With minutes to spare before kickoff, the Cheyenne marching band enters.
Both teams are 7-1, so it should be a good game. There doesn't appear to be any tension.
The coin is tossed. Cheyenne wins and will receive. The opening kickoff sails out of bounds, which is where the ball could've stayed for most of the dull first quarter. Cheyenne makes the least of its first offensive possession, punting after three abysmal plays. Gorman matches their futility, sparking a punt frenzy.
With 56.8 left in the first quarter, Gael DeMarco Murray scampers five yards for a touchdown, capping a 61-yard drive. The Gorman faithful whistle and foot-stomp a rendition of "We Will Rock You." A man with nachos in his hands screams as he ascends the steps: "Beat the heck out of damn Cheyenne."
The touchdown is a tease.
Mistakes dominate the second quarter, neither team able to do get out of its own way. Gorman begins its night of beneficence, committing the first of six turnovers. If the game were between the fans, Gorman's would be winning, big. It's as if they possess one mind and one huge throat. The fandom reacts to every play. Laughing when Cheyenne bumbles, encouraging the Gaels when the screw up, yelling when the team does something good.
Cheyenne faithful seem detached, certainly not as emotionally invested as their counterparts. The more mistakes the Desert Shield make, the more talk moves away from football. Three guys argue about the best ever basketball team at UNLV. The 1990 national champions or the 1987 or 1977 Final Four teams? "I used to have seats behind Tark," one guys says, "and I'm telling you, the 1990 team is the best."
When conversation veers to football, it's typically about how Cheyenne's coaches are louses. With time running out in the first half and Cheyenne needing a spark, the coaches called a play sending brilliant running back Terrie Coleman right up the middle, into the teeth of the Gorman defense. The boo birds swarm.
"That's horrible coaching."
"They don't deserve to win."
"Just give Gorman the game and let's all go home."
"Ya'll some dumb-ass coaches."
Cheyenne kicker Richard Young misses a 39-yard field goal, stoking dismay.
Minorities dominate. Black, Hispanic and Asian-American parents sitting next to each other. The fashion taste among the students is more P.Diddy than Puddle of Mudd. Save for a few letterman's jackets, there's not much in the way of Cheyenne paraphernalia or baubles, or, for that matter, heart-on-the-sleeve pride.
In contrast to the high drama of Friday Night Lights, we're half a game down and there've been no pyrotechnics on the field or among the players. If this keeps up, people might yearn for a little post-game brawl.
Cheyenne won last year's penalty-plagued, trash-talking contest 32-27, but lost in the court of prep governance opinion. The NIAA suspended a handful of Cheyenne players and forced the team to forfeit its upcoming Sunset Regional semifinal game against Centennial (Gorman escaped with a forfeiture of its first game this season).
R-J sports columnist Joe Hawk fumed at the ruling, writing that the NIAA "killed a fly with a sledgehammer," punished the innocent with the guilty and flipped the "you win as a team, you lose as a team" sports axiom into "you're suspended as a team."
Cheyenne Principal Ronan Matthew alleged NIAA sanctions were payback because he'd exposed financial mismanagement in the office of student activities and athletics. The office's former director, Larry McKay, was arrested in August on four counts felony theft relating to a summer basketball program he ran in school gyms using school funds. A longtime NIAA board member, McKay was close to NIAA Executive Director Jerry Hughes, one a group of people who determined punishment.
Cheyenne got a reprieve when District Judge Jackie Glass granted a temporary restraining. The court action could only help so much: The Desert Shield beat Centennial but got trounced (31-0) by Palo Verde in the Sunset Region title game.
The third quarter featured more of the boring same: mistakes compounded by missed opportunities. Gorman failed to cash in on an excellent kickoff return to open the second half. Nor could Cheyenne stop shooting itself in the (cleated) foot. After recovering a Gorman fumble, the Desert Shield dithered offensively.
Watching fan reaction soon becomes the game. On a third and 11, Cheyenne is whistled for an illegal offensive formation, prompting one supporter to speculate, that "the refs must be bought-out off by the rich-ass Gaels." Others take an opportunity to vent on their team's ineptitude.
"Do you have any other plays?"
"Did you see that pass? It was horrible."
"They're playing like turd!"
Back on the Gorman side: Fans erupt when Coleman fumbles, but sigh when the Gaels give the ball right back via an interception. And chant "nice kick" when Cheyenne's kicker misses another field goal.
The first overt signs of animosity come in the fourth quarter, when a Cheyenne defender, after intercepting Gorman's quarterback, is hit outside the lines. Referee: "15-yard penalty, Gorman, unsportsmanlike conduct." The shit-talking begins. Coaches on each side encourage cooler heads to prevail.
The first real taunting comes after a Gorman cornerback blasts a Cheyenne receiver, knocking the ball out of his hands and preventing a sure touchdown, then wags his finger and shakes his head in a don't-come-with-that-weak-shit manner.
Time ticks down.
With 4:24 to go, Cheyenne is stopped on a fake field goal attempt. At 3:20, Gorman is penalized for unsportsmanlike conduct—a Gaels player illegally rams a Cheyenne defender with his helmet. A trio of Gorman faithful, faces beet red, voices bullhorn loud and wearing Team Hammond sweaters, scream at the refs: "Let 'em play! Let 'em play! C'monnnnn ..."
At 2:14: Personal foul on Cheyenne. A Gorman defender is tossed of bounds and careens onto the track. "F--k that," a Gaels player yells. The teams trade idle threats.
Wait ... there's a second yellow flag on the ground. Another penalty: Gorman roughed the passer. Cheyenne keeps possession, infuriating Gaels coaches and Gael faithful.
With 1 minute left, Cheyenne scores. Tie game, 7-7. Cheyenne's cheerleaders sprint behind the goal post and do the tomahawk chop.
After two hours and 30 minutes, things are finally getting good.
"This is not a bad crowd for Vegas," says an off-duty referee, surveying nearly full stands and the reams of people lined along the fence. "It's horseshit compared to anyplace else, but we are getting a treat tonight."
The Gorman sideline, vocal and active throughout, is subdued. As if siphoning the Gorman energy, the Cheyenne supporters stand up, exchange high-fives, dance. "Gorman should be up by five touchdowns," a man in a UNLV jacket says.
Overtime rules: Ball on the 10-yard line, each team has four downs to score. They trade possessions until someone wins.
Emotions rage. There's neck-bobbing swagger from Cheyenne players; chest-pounding bravado from Gorman athletes.
Cheyenne gets first crack and is immediately rewarded by a Gorman penalty. Referee: "Unsportsmanlike conduct." A Gorman defender tries to twist Coleman's ankle after the play is dead. Cheyenne scores a touchdown on the next play, for a 14-7 lead.
Gorman's turn. Third and 8: Murray gains six yards. On fourth down, trickery. They sprint to the line, snap the ball quickly and the quarterback scores. Tie game—14-14. Double overtime.
Gorman's up first. Murphy fumbles. Or does he? The referees caucus, then rule: fumble. "F--k that," Murphy yells at the referee, fortunate to not get ejected.
Cheyenne ball. Young sets up for a field goal. Good.
Game over: Cheyenne 17, Bishop Gorman 14. Now the real game begins.
Several Gorman players lie on the ground, crying, their chests rapidly heaving. A second year of heartbreaking defeat to a bitter rival. Coaches try to console their players.
On the Cheyenne side: adulation and euphoria, players dancing and prancing, hugging girlfriends and dapping up friends, leading chants of "Chey-Town, Chey-Town."
Huddled on the sides of the field they warmed up on, the teams listen to pep speeches by the coaches then head to midfield, lining up on opposite sides, ready for hand-slaps. As they pass each other, some shake hands, others don't, keeping their hands to their sides, looking straight ahead or directly into the eyes of their opponents. There'd be cordiality but no olive branches. Or violence. The police presence is thick.
As fans exit the stadium, some Cheyenne fans mock Gaels faithful and players. Words are exchanged and threats made. A few Gorman players want to rumble, needing to be held back by peers. Nothing comes of it.
For some, this post-game incident might take the focus off the game—in which both teams had things to be proud and ashamed of—and reinforce the notion that how a team plays is indicative of the people who support it.