The purpled-hued high school glory days

Deep in the recesses of my bedroom closet there hangs a spectacular ’90s-era fashion crime.

It’s a purple leather bomber jacket, emblazoned with white and gold-trimmed felt, the number “51” on one sleeve, the letters “DT” on the other. On the back is splayed “Spartan Football” and on the front left breast is a garish crest: “District 10 Champions 1989-90.”

And it’s the most heinous shade of purple ever made, somewhere between a really bad thigh bruise and Barney the dinosaur. No cow ever birthed this hue of leather without the help of radioactivity.

Nevertheless, I’ve toted this thing cross-country as I’ve moved from place to place, taking it along in lieu of clothing I might actually wear.

I think I’ve worn this relic in public twice since graduating from high school and nary a once since getting married. My wife hates this jacket and has implored me to banish it forever. Still, it lives on.

As an undersized defensive tackle during my three undistinguished years in a Spartan football uniform, my job was either to fall down and make a pile as the ball carrier was coming in my direction, or get the hell out of the way of the guy behind me. I played with a middle linebacker who went on to have a seven-year career in the Canadian Football League, so I let him do a lot of the more difficult things such as tackling people.

The partnership worked well. We went to three championship games and won a city title in 1989.

That championship still marks the pinnacle moment of my sporting career. I remember the surging euphoria I felt when the final gun sounded and we ran onto the football field in celebration, one of those rare moments of pure, unfettered joy.

But two of my three trips to the final ended in losses, and I recall the gut-wrenching sadness I felt. I cried both those days, shamelessly too.

I walked off the field after my final game in Grade 13, knowing I’d never play another game of competitive football again, that when I pulled off my helmet, it would be for the last time in my life.

In high school sports, often there is no next year.

I still have the purple fashion crime jacket at home but there’s a fine line between fondly recalling the big game and hanging on a little too tight to the glory days.

It, like me, is much better off staying permanently in retirement.