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Our cover story this month about LSU’s quarterbacks reminded me of my own glorious days on the old gridiron.

By glorious days on the old gridiron I’m talking about my two years as a benchwarmer for my high school football team. I had plenty of enthusiasm but came up a little short in three key areas: skill, speed and ability.

Blocking and tackling didn’t come naturally to me, and throwing or catching? Out of the question. So, of course, I was assigned to the position of tight end.

But I soon learned our team wouldn’t be throwing many passes.

Our offensive philosophy went something like this: “We worked this hard to get the football, we’ll be damned if we’re going to throw it up in the air and give it back.”

So we ran the ball. All night. We kept defenses off-guard by sometimes running right, and other times—get this—we ran left.

I did get an actual shot at glory, though. I was briefly the kicker.

After the starting kicker missed one too many kicks, Coach woke me from the sideline daze all scrubs understand, “Guariscoooo!” he yelled.

I ran in a panic onto the field, fumbling with my helmet and chin strap. I barely had time to think when the center snapped the ball and our holder placed it down. I booted a brick that barely cleared the head of our left guard. Good!

I returned to the sideline beaming with elation, and I smiled up at my clutch of friends in the bleachers, who understood they’d just witnessed a miracle: A scrub they knew actually got into the game. Wow.

Again, Coach woke me suddenly from my dream.

“Guariscoooo!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing? Get out there and kick off!”

In the next game, the holder—our quarterback—fumbled the snap on an extra point. Before I could think, he had scooped it up and was rolling out away from the rushing defenders. I stood alone in the middle of the field. I instinctively raised my arms and ran to even more open space when the QB, who went on to become a prosecutor, made eye contact.

“Loouisss!” I yelled, waving my arms frantically. I was wide open.

Maybe Louis knew something I didn’t, maybe he just had good sense. I saw his head swivel side to side, as if in slow-motion, saying “Nooooooo.” He chucked it incomplete into a crowd.

A couple weeks later, in a key district game, I booted what I thought was an extra point. It sailed high over those short, stubby uprights that some high schools have. I would have sworn it was good. But the two refs waved their arms side to side. “No good.”

Back on the sideline, standing sheepishly behind the starters with my helmet still on, I saw Coach grab his assistant by the collar and sneer, “I don’t want Guarisco kicking another football!”

Goodbye glory. Hello bench. Remember me?