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Long week, tough finish

Bill Vonada and his Springstead players embark on five days of activities during a playoff trip before their season ends in heartbreak.

By VINCENT THOMAS
Published November 13, 2005

The game - that is what most Springstead fans see.

That's really all we see: John Hogeland passing, Mike King rushing, Phil Maguire blocking, Seth Metz tackling, Andrew Ortiz batting down a pass and, of course, Bill Vonada coaching with his headset and clip board.

But the game, as we know, is the end product. Just like BMWs get designed, built, shipped and sold, football games are - on the most basic level - weeklong productions.

First, there are team meetings, practices, paperwork and spaghetti dinners. Then comes the game, 80-yard touchdown runs and the blindside sacks that make mothers wince and the gore-chasing fans erupt.

On Friday night, the Eagles ended their season with a 31-12 loss to New Smyrna Beach in the opening round of the Class 4A playoffs. Losing wasn't the plan throughout the week.

What did go on during the week? The Times followed the Springstead squad for five days on the road to the showdown at New Smyrna Beach:

Vonada and the rest of the coaches spend Saturday and Sunday splicing and transferring film while they wash the team's dirty jerseys and shuffle through paperwork.

"You'd probably be bored out of your mind if you came," Vonada says.

They do all of that to get to this day. Monday is when the team gathers before practice for the film session. By 3 p.m., most of the players are present, still in their school gear. There are not enough seats for everyone. Some stand, some sit on the desks. It's the Eagles' first look at New Smyrna Beach, a squad bigger, faster and stronger than Springstead.

Vonada and defensive coordinator Mike Garofano emcee the session. The players listen. A couple get a little chatty midway through the meeting. Vonada squashes that.

"Hey guys in the back, I'm done hearing that conversation," he says with a don't-test-me expression - the one where he raises his eyebrows and nods his head rhetorically.

"If you have that much energy, I'll take you outside and handle it," the head coach says.

The guys don't want to run any suicides, so they shut up. Vonada and Garofano's words set the tone for the rest of the week: "Don't play soft, we can win if we execute" and a couple other football cliches.

"We're not going all the way over there to collect a T-shirt," Vonada says.

Certain professions have endless work weeks. Full-time moms never get a day off and are on call 24 hours. High school football coaches can't put on make-up while driving to work, but they will find time to produce some dummy plays for the next practice.

"If my wife is driving, then I'm usually in the passenger seat doing some game work," Vonada says in his office as he prepares for a workout.

Vonada works 80-100 hours per week during the season. He teaches, and when not in the classroom, he's doing something coach-related. His days start real early. Hernando is not up when Vonada awakes. "Can't the St. Pete Times find a way to deliver the paper earlier?" he jokingly asks.

He had missed out on news of a coaching change in Pasco County. "I was taking the trash out today - I don't know, around 4 or 4:30 - and the paper hadn't delivered yet. By the time I showered and got ready, I had to rush to school. I didn't have time to read."

It's about 2 p.m. Vonada's desk will be clean and neat by the time he leaves. But at the moment, there's a pile of papers here and a pile of papers there.

The main task this afternoon is scripting the plays the Eagles will run in practice. But it is all about multi-tasking, right?

Vonada is on the phone making travel plans, calls his wife, meets with a coach and borrows a bottle of Whiteout from one of his co-workers in the guidance office.

There also is a semi-steady stream of visitors - kids coming in to drop off paperwork and a fellow teacher asking Vonada what he wants to do about the speaker in his office. It was turned off because the announcements were too loud. But they can't figure out what to do right now - football is on Vonada's mind.

He glances at a clock, noticing that it is nearly 3 p.m. Vonada has called a brief pre-practice meeting due to start in a few minutes. He still needs to print Hogeland's wristband cheat sheet, but the printer isn't working. So Vonada frantically packs up, rushes to the computer lab and handles his business.

The Eagles are on the practice field by about 3:45. The day and week are far from over for the coach.

Metz is sitting in a seat that a manufacturer made with a 6-year-old in mind. A little girl is in front of him, leaning against a mini table and reading the large words written in Magic Marker. Metz puts a green check next to the word if she gets it right and a red check next to it if she's wrong. The girl is struggling with the word "care."

"Come on, you know that word," Metz says.

She's right - a green check.

Vonada, Metz and about seven of his teammates are spending the day at Chocachatti Elementary School on California Road. They're here to talk to the kids about the type of stuff athletes discuss with youngsters: getting good grades, being a good sport, obeying Mommy and flossing their teeth at night. It may sound cliche, but the students see some jerseys, and they eat it up.

"Okay, class. Turn your bottoms and listen to Mr. Vonada," instructs the teacher, Ms. Ross.

Before Vonada can get out two or three sentences, one of the kids has a question. It's David. He's sitting in the back of the class, and he wants to reveal a few things to the coach, Metz and Ben Noury.

"Once, I had this dream," the youngster says with that pitch and cadence perfected by kids. "And there was this guy, and he had a bazooka..."

"David," interrupts the instructor in one of those pleasant elementary-teacher voices. "Does this have anything to do with what we're talking about?"

"I was just telling them about my dream, David says.

The rest had to wait until recess.

Meanwhile, Metz and Noury are trying to relate football to everyday, practical things that the kids might experience. Metz promotes sharing and not being greedy, which is stressed to the Eagles during practice and games. Springstead is a team without a true star. Its wins are egalitarian.

Noury cautions against disobedience. If Vonada tells Noury, a receiver, to run a 5-yard slant across the middle, then the player better run a 5-yard slant across the middle. Much like, Noury explains to the kids, if they're told not to play on the monkey bars, then they better not play on the monkey bars.

Varsity football and kindergarten - they're different, but the same.

While Metz and Noury are making like Steve Spurrier addressing a room of CEOs, Vonada is off to the side in a little room doing ... you guessed ... some game planning. It's too bad because he missed the kids telling Metz and Noury what they want to be when they grow up. There are future football players, models, even an aspiring librarian. David has his goals, too.

"I want to be a disco dancer," he says. Then he starts mimicking a dance John Travolta made famous in Saturday Night Fever.

The playoff game is just about a day away. Vonada is in his office getting ready for practice. With most of the preparation coming to a close, he reflects on how it all gets done. He makes this much clear: It's not a one-man show.

"This is a team effort," Vonada says. "It's not all about me. There are so many guys that put forth a lot of effort to get done what we accomplish week in and week out."

This is about the assistant coaches, players and parents. It's a collective pursuit.

In front of Vonada's desk are two garbage bags full of individual goodie sacks. They're white paper bags with some candy, a sack of chips and a few other things. Vonada's wife makes them before every game. She even personally writes each player's name on the bag. This week, there's a special message: "Bludgeon the Barracudas."

A couple hours later, practice is over and the players are heading off the field. Chris Ferguson chuckles at a lame jibe thrown his way about how the Barracudas are going to lock him up, saying that he's read where New Smyrna Beach has started looking toward next week - like the Springstead game isn't even worth playing. Friday can't come soon enough.

The team meets in the cafeteria after its workout, woofs down a spaghetti dinner - a Thursday night tradition - and heads home. By about 5:30 p.m., the custodian is emptying the scraps into the garbage. The players are long gone, and only Vonada remains. He's in a room finishing a radio interview.

The charter bus pulls out of the Springstead parking lot in the early afternoon. It finally is game day. An hour-long drive on S.R. 50 and some heavy-traffic weaving on I-4 brings the team to a rest stop on the eastern side of Orlando, a couple miles from Lake Mary High.

Springstead players are in their jerseys and gym shorts. Many are wearing flip-flops, anything to stay comfortable. Cheerleaders have joined them. They all grab sandwiches and energy drinks out of the coolers.

Before you know it, Vonada and Garofano have the squad on the far end of the rest stop for a quick run-through. Quarterback John Hogeland stands behind center taking practice snaps. In front of them is a Winnebago with a charred front grill and a Sno-Line 16-wheeler.

"They're a good offense, and they're going to make plays," Vonada says, shouting to try and be heard over the cars whizzing by on the highway. "We just have to come out the next play and knock somebody down."

Ball security, execution, play hard - that's what will get the Eagles a win, the coach says.

They're about five hours from finding out if that's true or not. As the team unloads the bags off the bus hours later, the day has changed. The sun is setting and making the clouds a purplish-pink, and the breeze turns chilly.

The Eagles are quiet, and the stadium is empty. By the time the players suit up, fans begin arriving. About 150 Springstead followers show up, hoping they leave making plans for another trip next week.

In the locker room, Vonada does his best to embolden the team. "Sometimes the fastest man doesn't win the race. Sometimes the strongest warrior doesn't win the battle," he says.

It's his way of letting the Eagles know that New Smyrna's superior athleticism and size don't translate to an automatic victory.

"We need to spend our time doing what we've done all year," Vonada says, "which is worry about only the things we can control."

Things such as momentum-killing penalties like the holding call on New Smyrna's 10-yard line.

The Eagles begin the game with three consecutive plays for first down. They're poised to score and tie the contest at 7 when a holding penalty backs them up. Then the Barracudas tackle running back Victor Schick for a loss. And since kicker Tim Crane is nursing an injury, Springstead has to punt.

"If we could've punched that one in," Vonada says later, "we probably would've been in this game."

New Smyrna scores with less than a minute left in the first half to make 17-0. From that point on, the game never is close.

Some, like Mike King, are trying to keep their cheer. He says he will try to focus on the success of this season and his career as opposed to dwelling on the loss. Jeff Haynes says he's proud of the seniors and grateful for the examples they set.

Others are not as upbeat. Hogeland takes the loss the hardest. He had two interceptions, held the ball a little too long on a couple plays and injured his back late. Tears start blending with the sweat on Hogeland's cheek as the final seconds tick away. He cries en route to the locker room, as he gets dressed, even as he sits on the ground eating a postgame sandwich.

Kenney Beeker says there's nothing that could make him smile. He describes the game with one word: "depression." Andrew Ortiz says it's heartbreaking and that the three-hour drive home will feel like a decade.

There isn't much Vonada can say to change the spirits. He stands outside the locker room with a few other coaches. A couple times, the Springstead leader removes his hat, runs his hand through his hair, sighs and purses his lips.

The five days are much like the 10 or 11 weeks that precede it: film, practice, paperwork and spaghetti. Next week, however, will be different for Vonada and his players - an unwanted prospect.

"I just hope these guys realize that the sun will come out tomorrow," Vonada says. None of these kids are redheaded orphans, but he's right.

[Last modified November 13, 2005, 03:00:43]