Valiant Pond Dive

How three Picher Gorillas turned donuts into disaster—and still made kickoff

Friday at 3:00—Let the Race Begin

In Picher, Oklahoma, football wasn’t just played—it was survived. And sometimes the biggest tackles came before the first whistle blew. What started as a harmless joyride to kill time before the team bus left for Fairland turned into a mud-soaked, panic-drenched, trench-dodging disaster of Chat Rat proportions. Here’s how three-fifths of the Picher Gorillas’ starting offensive line nearly missed the bus—and made local legend in the process.

The DQ Dash and a Better Idea

The bell rang promptly at 3:00 pm and everyone bolted from the building, racing for an array of cars parked along the East side of the building. Camaros, Trans-Ams, Mustangs, a couple of Beetles, a Vette or two, a few sedans and one spotted Plymouth Valiant sat there quietly, totally unaware of the onslaught about to hit them. Engines revved, music blared, tires spun, gravel flew, and the race was on to see who would be the first to reach the Dairy Queen down the road. An after school ritual repeated day-after-day, week-after-week during the school year. But today would be different, mighty different, for a few of us.

I sat on the trunk lid of my spotted Valiant, waiting for Dennis to come out. He was always the last one, stopping to talk to every pretty girl he saw on the way. It was late October—overcast, a little chilly. Nearly perfect. It was football season in Oklahoma and today was game day.

“The pads will be popping tonight,” I thought to myself as I donned my letter jacket and zipped it up. It was a bit nippy outside wearing only a red away jersey. I was number 60 that year and the jersey was bright red, made of nylon/polyester with big white numbers front and back. It was filled with small pinholes to improve air flow and the wind cut right through it on that chilly fall afternoon.

Just then I heard a shout-out that sounded something like deedle-deedle-dee and I looked up to see Dennis coming across the parking lot with our good friend Larry Cox in tow. They wore their jackets and jersey too, just like all the other varsity players in Picher on game day. It was tradition for players and cheerleaders to wear their uniforms to school every Friday during the season, and we enjoyed participating in and observing the tradition, if you know what I mean.

We had a couple of hours to kill before the bus left at 5:00 pm. We played the Fairland Owls that night and it was an hour bus ride to get there. Coach Floyd wanted everyone on board and ready to roll promptly at 5:00 pm and he was serious about it. He had been known to leave players behind who didn’t comply. No one wanted to pay the price for missing the bus so everyone got there 15 minutes early, at least.

“You guys want to run down to Betty’s and play some pinball,” Larry asked. “Nah, I can’t. I lost all my money pitching quarters with JD and Marlon at noon,” I replied. Then Dennis piped up and said, “Hey, let’s go cut some didos at Lawyers. That will be fun!” Didos, short for donuts, were a frequent pastime for Chat Rats and that was a great idea. So, we loaded quickly into my Valiant and headed off toward the chatpile.

The Lawyers chatpile had seen better days but it had become a haven for outdoor motor sport enthusiasts. At its peak, it was the third largest chatpile in Ottawa County, after the Sooner and Western. But at that time, wind and weather had eroded its peaks and had created a large kidney-shaped sand flat along the southern base of the chatpile. On any given Saturday, the sand flat was filled with motorcycles, dune buggies and go karts. We had just been there the weekend before and had a great time. It would be deserted on a Friday afternoon and we would have the whole flat to ourselves. “Hurry up,” Dennis said. “We don’t have much time.”

Chat Pile Mayhem at Lawyers

We tore out of the school lot and zig-zagged through backroads like we’d stolen something—Dennis shouting turns, gravel flying. We were eager to get to the flats and have some fun, so I had the Valiant floored and we were flying down road. That little straight-6 engine was revved to the max and chat was flying out from the back wheels clanging against the fender wells like popcorn popping at the movie theater.

We rounded a sharp left turn and the rear end of the car swung to the right just a bit too much, but we never lost control. Chat was flying everywhere, and we were whooping and hollering like the ornery teenagers we were, having a great time! And then I saw it! 

Trenches, Screeches, and a Sudden Soak

“Oh Sh*t!” I shouted at the top of my voice. Someone had cut a trench across the road leading to the sand flats and they had piled up the chat 10-feet high on the other side of the trench. I considered jumping the mound like the Duke brothers, but then realized we would never get to the mound because of the trench. I slammed on the brakes, standing on the pedal as hard as I could. The rear end slid wide to the right so I counter-steered hard right into the slide to keep the car from spinning out of control. That stopped the spin but left us sliding sideways down the gravel road toward the trench at 50 miles an hour.

I hit the gas hard hoping to spin the Valiant around in the opposite direction of the trench and slow our momentum. (Yeah, I know, it was a six-banger Valiant, not a Hemi. What was I thinking?) But the rear wheels suddenly found grip on the hardpan under the loose gravel and the car lurched forward and shot off the road, about 10 degrees left of the trench. Everyone in the car breathed a momentary sigh of relief, thinking we had avoided catastrophe, until we saw the pond!

A deluge of water splashed high, up and over the hood, and hit the windshield with a loud thud. I thought for sure it would break, but it didn’t. We sat their motionless, surrounded by the thick cloud of dust we had stirred up on the gravel road. For a couple of minutes, we couldn’t see anything outside, and no one said a word. I could hear the heavy breathing of Dennis and Larry and I turned to look at both of them. They were as white as ghosts and taking in big gulps of air. Larry whispered, barely audible, “We’re alive!” It was now 4:00 pm.

Lawyers Pond: The Recovery Operation

When the dust cleared, we realized we were not out of the woods just yet. My poor Valiant sat high-centered on the steep embankment of Lawyers Pond. Rocking back and forth on the ridge like a teeter totter. I opened the driver’s side door and water poured into the floor board. The front half of the car was floating in the pond and there was an eerie gurgling noise coming from under the hood. Oh yeah, that little straight-6 was still running. Halfway under water!

Larry was sitting in the backseat, leaning over the front seat so he could see through the windshield. Dennis had been riding shotgun, up front with me. I told Larry to scoot back hoping it would help change the center of gravity. When he did, the front end of the car rose a couple of feet and the gurgling noise under the hood changed into a propeller sound. 

Bumper-Squatting, Tadpole-Dodging, Glory

We spent the next few minutes debating who would wade out into the filthy mill pond to push the front end of the car up enough for the back tires to make contact with the ground. Finally, it was decided that it would be Dennis and me. We took off our letter jackets and jerseys, our shoes and our socks, but we left on our jeans. After all, we had to have some protection from the water moccasins…

Dennis and I waded carefully out into the pond, gingerly stepping over the rocks until finally making contact with the slimy mud bottom of the mill pond. Thank God, it wasn’t the deep end of the pond. I could feel the mud squeezing up between my toes with each step. Hanging on to the front bumper of the car trying not to slip and fall completely into the pond. Dennis and I each grabbed a corner of the car to steady it and then I hollered to Larry to move to the driver’s seat. Just then I looked up and tadpole eggs were dangling from my right forearm. Yuck!

Larry eased out of the back seat and the center of gravity shifted. The front end of the car suddenly weighed hundreds of pounds more and it broke over center and started to fall into the pond. Dennis and I grunted and pushed up simultaneously like we were coming up out of a personal best squat. My feet sunk another six inches into the muddy bottom, but we held the line. Larry slid carefully into the driver’s seat, and that helped, finally we could feel momentum changing in our favor. The front end of the car came up out of the water another foot, just enough for the fan blade to touch the top of the pond and spray muddy water all over us. We were now covered in mud from head to toe. But we didn’t care, victory was in sight.

Larry shifted into reverse and gunned the engine, but the rear wheels hung six inches off the ground. “Rock it,” I shouted, and he leaned his weight backward in the seat. Better—but still three inches shy.

“Okay,” I said, “next time we’ll push when you hit it.”

Larry threw his weight back and floored it. Dennis and I heaved upward with like our lives depended on it. The car creaked, broke over center—and the wheels bit. The Valiant shot backward like a sling-shot. Larry slammed the brakes, and skidded to a stop just inches from the trench.

Mud-Streaked and 30 Minutes to Spare

It was 4:30 pm.

No time to dress, Dennis and I piled into the front seat of the car while Larry jumped over the front bench seat into the back. We made a mad dash out on Lawyers Road and almost hit someone as we exited onto 12th Street at full speed. We only had 30 minutes to make the bus and our gear was still in the locker room!

We took the back roads this time, avoiding traffic in downtown Picher :-), and cutover to Cardin Road. We flew down the backroad, slid around the corner onto A Street and slid into a parking spot between the Band Room and Hayman Field. Everyone else had already boarded the bus, except for Coach Floyd and Dick Newton. They were pacing around in circles holding clipboards. They were missing 3/5ths of the starting offensive line and they were pissed. I played center, Dennis played right guard and Larry played left tackle. They weren’t leaving without us, but they were not happy to be forced to wait. It was now 4:45 pm.

Clipboard Fury and Back Row Victory

We made a mad dash for the locker room, throwing on jerseys and coats while we ran barefooted across the parking lot to the field house. Stuffing everything from our lockers into gym bags we stopped only long enough to put on shoes and socks. Still wearing those wet jeans, we raced to the bus and rushed to find seats. It was 5:00 pm straight up!

That was the only time I can remember us not having to fight to get the back row seats on the bus. Brian Martin shouted out, “Glover, you stink!” Vance Box gaged and both of them quickly gave up their seats. In spite of all that, it ended up being one of our better games as an offensive line. The defense had a hard time staying close to us for some weird reason.

The Game After the Game

Mud-caked, soaked, and smelling like we’d been dragged behind a cattle truck, we somehow made it onto that bus—and onto that field.

 We weren’t just playing Fairland that night; we were playing to prove that nothing—ponds, trenches, coaches, or even our own stupidity—could slow us down.

 Because in Picher, if you could survive Friday afternoon, you sure as heck could survive Friday night.

Got your own Friday afternoon screw-up that somehow turned into a win? Share it over at facebook.com/RealChatRat. Bonus points if it involves a pond, a coach with a clipboard, or the back row of a bus.