When September Ends, Part III

Every time I saw Rod Smith catch a touchdown pass for the Denver Broncos I got teary eyed. Not because I'm a fan, (although I am a huge Rod Smith fan) or because he has overcame serious knee injuries to become one of the premier pass receptors in the NFL. I get moist eyes because of what Rod Smith represented to me; toughness, desire, athletic ability and heart.

You see, I have never met Rod Smith in person although I had an opportunity to see him play twice in college. Well, actually I got a chance to see him play one full game and one quarter of another one.

Let me explain. The first time I saw Rod Smith play, I was a red-shirt freshman football player at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg in the fall of 1992. We were playing host to the Missouri Southern Lions. We came into the contest sporting a 3-1 record and Mo. Southern was undefeated at 4-0, so it was a pretty big early season conference game.

To tell you the truth, most MIAA (Mid-America Intercollegiate Athletic Association) Conference games were big games considering you had to play against the likes of perennial Division II powers Pittsburg State, Missouri Western, Emporia State, Northeast Missouri State (now Truman State) Washburn (yes, Washburn was a torn in Central Mo's side in the early 90’s) and of course, Mo Southern. Northwest Missouri State had not yet become the class of the MIAA. Any of those teams could claim potential pro ball players and various D-II All-Americans amongst their roster.

Anyway, MO Southern came into the game explosive on offense and athletic on defense. We were the exact opposite; dominating on defense and athletic on offense. (In this tense, athletic refers to good athletes on their respective sides of the ball, but as a unit, not very proficient).

The Lions boasted an array of talented performers on offense, including lefty quarterback Matt Cook, a tall and rangy Rod Smith, a bruising tailback in Karl Evans and a stout offensive line.
On the other hand, Central Mo. countered with a Dirty Red defense that was nationally rank #1, 2, or 3 in total defense, total points, and turnover margin. Not bragging, but I was a pretty heralded D-II recruit but I never stepped on the field that year because we had 14 pretty good defensive backs and ten of them got ample playing time. Hell, I couldn't even crack the special teams unit that season.

Out of four defensive back positions, we had four dope starters, four solid backups and two more ball-hawks who played both the safety and cornerback positions. One of those ball-hawks was a sophomore from Parkway Central High named Wesley Maurice Drummond. We called him Milk because he never drank alcohol, didn't use drugs and hardly lifted weights. He didn't even drink milk, but he was so naturally cut and strong the name just fit.

When I first met Milk the summer prior to that season, we didn't quite hit it off too well. He was from the Walnut Park (North Side) area of The City and I was off The Block in South Saint Louis. His particular set was a blood set and my preference was to the guys in blue (and I'm not talking about the STLPD).

After that intensely hot summer camp of two-a-day practices, we bonded in a teammate sort of way. It was no longer a personal beef between us being from opposite ends of the gangbang spectrum, but love and respect that come from going through football's version of a military boot camp.

Like I was saying, Mo. Southern had a deadly one-two punch at quarterback and receiver. Fortunately, Cook, the quarterback, had been injured the week before and was ruled out for the game against us. So what does Mo Southern do? Yep. They moved Rod Smith to quarterback for the game. Thanks to Milk, we would never see him take a snap from underneath center.

After winning the coin toss we received possession of the football first. Promptly, the offense stalled and we were force to punt.

All week, we had prepared for Rod Smith to return punts. He was very good at it and we prepared accordingly. Milk, who was a back-up at both cornerback and safety that game, was geeked. He knew he wasn't going to be on the field to start the game on defense, but he felt he could set the tone for the defense with a big hit on Rod Smith during punt coverage.

Things started moving slowly for me on the sidelines during that first punt. Although I couldn't play in the game, I was dressed out in our black pants, scarlet red jersey uniform-- complete with crisp, white wrist bands and a fresh, pretty boy towel. I was taking mental reps as the coaches like to say.

I was watching Milk because he was the 'gunner' on the punt coverage team, and I hoped I could do that job later on in the season if the coaches decided I was ready to contribute. His job was to 'gun' down the man with the football. In this case it was the All-American Rod Smith

As the ball floated off our punter's foot, Milky shook the man responsible for blocking him and was on a streamline bee right at Rod Smith, who stood some forty yards from the line of scrimmage waiting anxiously to return the punt for what he hoped would be another one of his spectacular plays.

Gauging the punt, first I saw Milk glance at Rod Smith. Almost on cue, Rod Smith looked at Milk and in a cruel twist of fate, sized him up for the juke move he had in store, then refocused back on the hanging punt. While this was going on, I looked at them both, then refocused on the ball, as well. Out the corner of my eye, I could see Milky zero in on his prey as the ball descended towards Rod Smith's oversized mitts.

In a blur, I, along with the 8,000 or so people in the stands, heard a thud, a pop and a scream. Within seconds, Milky was hot-stepping and celebrating, as Rod Smith lay in a sprawling heap--yellow flags from the referees abounded the sculptured green grass of Vernon Kennedy Field.

"Trainer! Trainer," one of the Mo. Southern Lions yelled out as their teammate summed up his plight in a painstaking "aaagggghhhh shit."

While the Mo. Southern trainers attended to their fallen stud, Milky was being chastised by our defensive back coach, Mark Hulet, who was being chewed out by our head coach Terry Noland.

"Mark, we can't afford 15-yard penalties," Coach Noland said to Coach Hulet, "get that straightened out would 'ya!"

"O.K. Coach," Coach Hulet politicked, "Wes...."

By that time Milky was amped. Not only had he blown out Rod Smith's knee, he was also penalized fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness; hitting the punt return man before he was allowed to catch the ball. What’s crazy is Milk thought he had time the hit perfectly.

"Man, what?" Milk sniped to Coach Hulet, still in an oversized zone, "what?"

"Time that hit the next time," Coach Hulet said emphatically. "Ease up and time that hit."

During the brief silence that followed Milky's hit, we could hear the moaning and grumbling on the Lions’ sidelines. They seemed to think we had a bounty out on Rod Smith but actually all we had was an overly-hyped 'gunner' with bad timing. In fact on the very next punt, Milky did the exact same thing to Rod Smith's replacement, smashing him before he caught the punt, again drawing a 15-yard penalty.

"Coach Hulet," Coach Noland screamed as he ran a forty-yard sprint from the offensive side of the sideline to the defensive side, "get Wes' ass out of there."

Coach Hulet was not defiant about it at all. "It's done Coach, it's done."

For a brief second I was hoping they would put me in the game, but I knew that would never happen without me practicing with the punt coverage team first. I snapped back to reality, walked up to Milk and said "damn, dirty what the f*** is wrong with you."

"Get the hell outta my face Crab ass rookie," Milky exclaimed, "get on the field first before you start popping off at the mouth you goddamn scrub."

I knew Milk was heated so I pardoned the eruption. Still I couldn't help but feel his frustration. He just wanted to hit somebody. Anybody.

"Calm down, dawg, calm down," I said, “it's the first damn quarter and you got 30 yards worth of penalties."

We went on to win that game, (we finished 6-4 that year) Rod Smith missed the rest of that season with a torn ACL and me and Milk went on to solidify our friendship. "You aw'ight with me Crab ass nigga," Milky would say later on, “you aw'ight with me."

In November, following the ’92 season, my teammate and friend Leon Moody and I needed a ride home from Warrensburg to Saint Louis for Thanksgiving break. Since we only socialized with other football players at that time and the Amtrak train was already booked full, our choices for a ride quickly dwindled. In a pinch, Milk came through. Only one catch, though. We had to mob with his Blood homies from Walnut Park who came up to The ‘Burg to kick it at a party CMSU hosted before the break.

"Hey, Blood," Milk said to one of his comrades the day he introduced us, "these niggas 'pose to be some Crabs."

"Yeah?" his partner countered.

"Yeah," Milk said.

"From where, blood,"

"Shit, I'on know," Milk chided, "where you niggas from again."

Moody chunked up his North County Hathaway South hood, while I chunked up The Block.

"Cuzz," Moody said after I retrieved the phone from my Grandma. "Milk got popped last night."

"What?" I screamed in disbelief. "By who, cuzz?"

"From what I'm hearing," Moody surmised "it was supposed to be a couple of them cats he hangs out with, but I'on know, cuzz."

"Was it them cats we rode home with?" I asked dumbfounded.

"I’on know,” Moody said, “but I think it happened over on the North by where them niggas be, but I'on know…they saying he might not be able to play ball this year. Once I find out more I'ma come and swoop you up, cuzz.”

Milk used to always were this fire engine red St. Louis Cardinals baseball jacket with 52euce Mob stitched on the sleeve and No Luv embroidered on the front. I never really fully understood what that meant until Moody called me with the unconfirmed word of Milk’s plight. His own homies, I thought? No wonder he calls this mutha the City of No Luv.

Moody did come down that pre-4th of July night to picked me up and give me the word on Milk’s situation. Seemed details were sketchy--no one knew who the perpetrators actually were and no one we knew could figure out why Milk had gotten shot. All was known was the homie was laid up in the hospital, expected to live, but unable to play football for the Mules that upcoming ’93 season. We didn’t get a chance to see him until we returned to school that fall, but we never asked him about what happened. We were just happy he was still alive and enjoying life.

A lot had change for me when I enrolled for the fall ’93 semester. I had blown the scholarship awarded to me by Coach Noland following my senior year at Eureka High. That red-shirt year affected my grades, as well as my off field behavior and it caught up with me my second year at Central: I was ineligible to play. So while my red-shirt brethren and fellow scout team members advance from red-shirts to starters (WR’s Moody and Sean McIntyre and DB Marlon Johnson among them) in one year, I was stuck in the bleachers, cheering on the Fighting Mules with the rest of the student body. My only solace was Milk. The injuries from that past summer’s shooting had left his hands and wrists a tangled mess so he couldn’t play either. We both just stood in the stands and critiqued every missed tackle, dropped ball, bad call (coaches’ and referees’) and the like.

Well, that was our routine for the first two homes games prior to Missouri Southern and Rod Smith’s return to Vernon Kennedy Stadium that season. (The Mules had only played one away game at that point of the season. Milk and I spent that particular afternoon listening to the game on the CMSU radio network, smoking blunts, drinking 40 Ounce brews and bitching about the DB’s not making enough plays—even though one of Milk’s roommates and best friends, Wayne Carter, and my good friend Marlon Johnson were the starting corners and my mentor Tom Jackson and pro prospect Creston Austin were starting at safety.

The 1993 Mo. Southern game was different than the one the season before. The ’93 game was an afternoon tilt and it was cold, wet and windy. Rod Smith was mad. He was motivated and he was on a mission. Milky couldn’t take it. Hell, I couldn’t even take sitting in the bleachers and I was ineligible. We both wanted to be out there. We couldn’t, so we did the next best thing. We asked the DB coach, Coach Hulet, if we could stand on the sidelines for the game against Mo. Southern.

“Stand over there and stay outta the way and don’t be talking trash to those guys,” was all Coach Hulet said. “Remember last year don’t you, Wes?”

I stand before this: to this day I say Rod Smith made it to the NFL based on his game against the Mules that late September afternoon. I don’t know how many catches he had, but I know he had three touchdown receptions on us and it crush me and Milk. The first one was a pretty left-handed loft from Matt Cook, the QB who sat out the game against the Mules the year before. It covered at least 65 yards—all I can remember is Rod Smith escaping Wayne’s Cover 2 jam at the line and Smith subsequently blowing by T.J. (Tom Jackson) at safety.

“Man, what the fuck?” Milk screamed, adjusting the straps on the black hand-wrap like cast he wore on his left mitt. “How they just gon’ let that nigga run by them like that, T.P.? Huh! What’s that shit?”

The second Rod Smith touchdown came in similar fashion as the first. Somehow Smith escaped our cornerback’s jam at the line of scrimmage and streaked toward Vernon Kennedy’s south end-zone. This time, the safety, Creston Austin, slipped and fell on the wet surface. Keep in mind, a Cleveland Browns’ scout had told Coach Noland and his staff Creston had the best footwork of any college defensive back in the country. Nevertheless, Creston slipped and Rod Smith ended up with another 60-yard plus TD reception from Cook.

“T.P., man that’s bullshit,” Milk screamed at Creston’s plight. “We suppose to be out there, Blood, we suppose to be out there.”

The third touchdown was classic Rod Smith. I mean, the two bombs were impressive as hell, but it was his leaping, sprawling catch over Marlon in the north end-zone that solidified Rod Smith’s standing in my eyes as the best wide receiver I ever saw play in person. It was a simple fade to the corner of the end-zone-- my boy Marlon, who would become a four-time All-MIAA performer--was draped all over Rod Smith and Smith still caught the ball. Classic.

“Ain’t much MJ could have done about that,” I said to Milk after Milk’s initial response of Smith’s third TD. “He was all on that nigga and that motherfu**a still caught the damn ball. That nigga going to the league, cuzz.”

We lost the game that year. Mo. Southern had just too many weapons for our Dirty Red Defense, which was still one of the top units in all of Division-II football. Too much Rod Smith to be exact.

After the game, we accompanied the team into the locker room. After hearing Coach Noland’s teary-eyed, post-game speech, Milk and I quietly pointed out all the mistakes the defense made. We both were extremely critical of our defensive back brethren, but what could we do about it besides getting back on the field the next year. Ping, as Wayne was affectionately known, didn’t want to hear it. M.J. sure as hell didn’t want to hear it. T.J. and Creston? We just let them stew in their post-game misery. They both were excellent safeties who just happened to run into a buzz-saw type wide receiver with a grudge.

Milk wanted to talk to Rod Smith after the game. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to talk shit to Smith—sort of congratulate Smith on his game. He wanted to let Smith know there was no bounty the year before. He even wanted to tell Smith about his shooting injuries. Eventually, Milk simply said “fuck it, that nigga know I ain’t have no bounty out on him. I ain’t gotta apologize. Let’s go get high while these bum ass niggas get dressed…them niggas let that boy scored three touchdowns on them T.P. Three! That’s bullshit!”

Milk and Ping lived with another Mules’ football player, Big Mo (Maurice Zanders) at The Estes Apartments. The ran down, semi-condemned mini high rise was our little private oasis. Moody and Sean Mac were roommates who lived down the hall from Big Mo, Ping and Milk. Our former running back, Henry Caldwell, who had a tryout with the San Diego Chargers after his eligibility was up, lived in The Estes, too. He had a couple of fellow Floridians living with him—cousins Cecil and Troy. I had moved out of the dorms at the beginning of the semester into the living room of a pair of female friends from Hannibal, Missouri—Marcia and Markita. I had met them freshmen year in the dorms and they were mad cool. I didn’t want to live in the dorm my second year but Moody and Sean Mac, who were suppose to be my roommates, had moved a defensive end from South Carolina named Willis Moye in right after two-a-days. I didn’t return to Warrensburg until school started that fall so they thought I wasn’t coming back. But I did and it was too late. Willis had moved in.
Anyway, The Estes was a hop, skip and jump from the locker room. Milk and I was talking about the game on the walk towards The Estes, when I told him about my situation.

“So, you saying your lil’ broad finna come drop your son off and ya’ll ‘bout to get on the train and go back to St. Louis?” Milk pondered when I informed him of my plans for to stop at Marcia and Markita’s apartment.

“What time she coming?”

“As soon as I call her.”

“What time does the train leave?”

“4:45.”

“What time is it now?”

“Right at 4:00.”

“Damn, nigga, we ain’t got that much time to smoke. When you coming back?”

Milk’s attitude had changed after his injuries. For instance, the drinking and smoking that was never apart of his life before, was a constant. He also chased more skirts than he had before his injuries. It was like he was determined to enjoy the college experience of drank, drugs and sex.

The apartment I lived in was a five minute walk from The Estes, which was right across the street from The Amtrak station, so I had a few minutes. I just had to make sure my female friend Crystal was coming. I had told here when I gave her my five-month old son to watch, that she was suppose to be ready to bring him to me right after the game was over. I just had to make it to my apartment, which was also by the stadium, to get my bags and call her.

“She’s on her way,” I said to Milk as he rolled up the stashed away blunt cigar. “Hurry up, I want to hit that shit before I get on the train.”

My son had been in Warrensburg for about two weeks. I was missing him real bad, so I made an Amtrak trip to St. Louis to get him for a week and he ended up staying two weeks. It was cool, though because my friend Crystal and my roommates helped me care for him to entire time he was there. Milk didn’t even know the boy was there.

“T.P., when you coming back?” Milk asked after toting the blunt a few times.

“That’s cool,” Milk said, passing the hocus-pocus. “I’ll be right on that Amtrak Tuesday.”

“Whatta mean?” I asked inquisitively.
“I got a doctor’s appointment Tuesday afternoon, so I’ll be on the train Tuesday morning. I’m trying to see if they gonna release me, so I can play this year.”

Milk surprised me. I mean, I knew he still wanted to play ball, but with his hands being as limp as they were, I figured he would try to come back the following season. I was wrong and I’m sure Rod Smith’s exploits that day made Milky even more anxious to get back on the field.

“We should have been out there, today, T.P.,” Milk said before I got in the car with Crystal. “He wouldn’t have got that shit off, I’m telling you, nigga. We would have shut that shit down.”

Whatever the case, I ended up missing the ride back to Warrensburg with Ray and AB the Sunday after I touched down in St. Louis. I chalked it up to a communication breakdown, but either way, I was stranded in St. Louis because no one in my family had money to send me back on the train. I wasn’t on the team so I couldn’t call Coach Noland, Hulet or our defensive coordinator Jeff Floyd. I tried asking Moody and Sean Mac for money the Monday after the Mo. Southern game, but they were busted, too. Moody said his mother would buy me a ticket if I was still in St. Louis that Wednesday because that’s when she got paid. So with no other alternative, I was stranded in St. Louis until at least Wednesday evening.

That Monday evening, after getting off the phone with Moody’s mother to set up our meeting later that week, I started reading a book called Monster Cody to kill time. It was about a Cali gang-banger who had went to prison, redeemed himself and decided to write a memoir about his gangbang days and reformation. It was a powerful book. Considering the fact the STL was in a full-fledged gang war itself, the book shed insight on some of the gang factions that had infiltrated The Lou in the late 1980’s. I ended up reading half the book that night.

I woke up the following morning to finish the other half of the book. By Tuesday afternoon, I was restless, so I took a nap. I woke up about a quarter to 5 p.m. and immediately went into my Grandma’s kitchen to catch the KMOV evening news, which I hadn’t seen since I left for fall semester in Warrensburg.

As the 4:58 p.m. news teaser came on that September 30th day, the broadcaster boldly stated “a 20-year old college student from Central Missouri State has been shot in the 5900 block of Garesche…”

My heart floored. My mouth dropped. In the midst of my own self-wallowing, I had forgotten Milk told me he was coming home Tuesday morning to see the doctor for clearance to play. I knew Milk lived on Garesche. I remembered he was coming home, but I was still in denial. But, who else, besides me, would be home in the middle of the week from Central Missouri State.

I waited on the subsequent newscast. They gave me all the info I needed to know that my homeboy had been shot again. They didn’t say his name, but they did say he was in critical condition. I picked up the phone to call Moody and Sean Mac. No answer. I called the football offices for Coach Noland. No answer. Everybody was still at football practice or getting ready to go to the dining room. Either way, I had to get in contact with somebody on the team.

As I waited for numerous phone calls to be returned, my mother and I were standing on my Grandma’s front porch when she noticed the strain on my face.

“What’s wrong, baby,” my concerned mother asked. “What happened?”

“Mama, I think they just killed my friend,” I calmly reflected. “I think they got him.”

“Your friend?” Moms politely asked. “What friend?”

“My friend I play ball with up at Central.”

“They killed him?”

“Naw, he ain’t dead yet, but I was watching Channel 4 and they said a twenty-year college student from Central Missouri State is in critical condition….”

“He got shot in St. Louis….what was he doing here if he was suppose to be at school?”

“Naw, mama, he came home to go to the doctor because they had all ready shot him this summer….”

“Who is they?”

“Don’t nobody know, mama, we never asked him what happened the first time, but I know it’s the same people…I know it is. I think they got him this time, mama…they killed my homie.”

A million and one things happened between the 5 and 6 o’clock newscast that evening. Moody had called back and said Coach Noland had made the team aware of the situation. Moody told me to just sit back and wait on the word. His mother still was going to get me a ticket back to The ‘Burg, but he wanted me to be cool in the meantime.

“They done took another one of our soldiers, T.P.,” Moody said before excusing himself to be with Ping, Big Mo, Sean Mac, our freshmen homeboy from Tulsa, Marcus, and the others. “My mother gonna have that ticket for you tomorrow, so just lay low until she get down to the City.”

The 6 o’clock news was a crusher. The news anchor started the broadcast with an update on Milk: “That twenty-year-old college student we told you about at five has died from his injuries. Police has identified the victim as 20-year-old Wesley Maurice Drummond, a former all-metro football player at Parkway Central High…”

I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I had always thought that if you left the streets of St. Louis, you couldn’t possibly die on the streets of St. Louis. Not a college student. No way had I thought that could ever happen. It happened, though and it happened to my friend and teammate. It was definitely a wake-up call for me.

Nobody seemed to care about the positives things we were trying to accomplish, especially in St. Louis. That’s all that ran through my mind after Milk’s death. The City of No Luv. That was Milky’s motto, St. Louis is Cutthroat City—The City of No Luv.

Things had changed drastically by the time I returned to Warrensburg that Thursday evening. The team had had a memorial service at The Chapel on campus the day before. Ping and Mo were among the hardest hit—they were Milk’s roommates. In an effort to keep the team focused on their upcoming game against Missouri Western State, Coach Noland decided against the team traveling to St. Louis for Milk’s funeral, which was held the Friday after his death. Not only did I miss the memorial service on campus (I was still in St. Louis), I missed Milk’s funeral in St. Louis. I got caught in-between and never got to see my homie laid to rest.

The Mules and Missouri Western played to a 14-14 tie that weekend, the first time Mo. West had ever played CMSU and didn’t come away with a loss. The Mules would wind up 7-2-1 that season, missing the playoffs by one game. Some say, to a man, the Mo. West game is what caused the Mules to miss out on the school’s first ever NCAA playoff berth that season.

The CMSU athletic department honored Milk after his death. They established an award called The Wesley Drummond Memorial Award, which awards a scholarship, plaque and game ball to the Mules’ player who best represents Milk’s courage, heart and determination. The award would be presented after every fourth game of the season (in case of a Mules’ victory). The award is still presented to this day, nearly 13, 14 years after Milk passed away. We miss you homie. See you in that Big End-Zone behind them Gates. You are truly our angel.