8602200781 DETROIT FREE PRESS 861109 Sunday, November 09, 1986 STATE EDITION

SPT

1E Photo MARY SCHROEDER;Map Color MITCH ALBOM SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION Copyright (c) 1986, Detroit Free Press TINY FRANKFORT GRIPPED BY FOOTBALL FRENZY We landed at the small airport, rented a car, and drove through the darkness. It was late and it was cold. There was a McDonald's and a Burger King and then there was nothing. "We take this road 30 miles to the stoplight," I said to Mary Schroeder, the photographer, who was driving. "Which stoplight is that?" she asked. I looked at my notes. "They only have one stoplight," I said. "To tell you the truth, when you called to say you were coming out to do a story on us, I thought someone was playing a practical joke." Tim Klein, football coach, Frankfort High Surely, this was the end of the earth. Frankfort, Michigan? Population, what -- 1,600? Small town, getting smaller. Lake Michigan has already eaten enough of the shoreline to cause the houses to be moved back and back again. A car ferry used to run here, but it doesn't anymore, and the railroad is gone now too. There's the Pet Foods plant and a few other shops and some small motels. And the high school. The idea was to see what a small town was like the day of its high school football playoff game. Frankfort seemed like a perfect town. It had won its conference title six years in a row, and was playing Lake City Friday night in the first round of the Class D playoffs. This is a place where pro sports never go. Where everyone has somebody on the school's football team -- a son, a nephew, a brother. They talk football all the time around here during the season. High school football. And they start inside Fav's Grill on Main Street -- of course it's on Main Street -- at 7:45 Friday morning. Fav's Grill. Tile floor, formica counter, one breakfast "special." This is where the townsfolk come, and so we were there, Mary and I, the only non-regulars in the place. They looked at us warmly, but strangely, as if we'd told them we were long-lost relatives. "Coffee?" "Yes, please." "Eggs and bacon?" "Over here." "Pancakes?" "Right here." "OK." "You're really up here from Detroit?" "Uh-huh." "My." "Who's gonna win the game tonight?" "Oh, the Panthers, of course." Of course. The Panthers. Purple and gold. That much you learn with your Frankfort milk. Kids here throw footballs out of the crib. Their fathers throw them back. Purple and gold. Purple and gold. Six years in a row Frankfort has won its conference in Class D, the smallest division. They do not get into their football here. They are a part of it. Last year, it snowed the night before the playoff game, six inches, and the call went out and everyone in town with a snow blower brought it to the field and it was cleared by noon. "I had a son who played here, and a nephew, and now I have friends whose grandchildren are playing. My dear, I've been watching these games for 40 years." Elsie Gilbert, the town librarian The kids at Frankfort High School look, well, like high school kids, jeans, Reebok sneakers, combs in their pockets. On Friday the players all wear their football jerseys and if they have girlfriends, the girlfriends get to wear a jersey too. The hallways are a gallery of pep art. Posters are taped to the walls, little purple footballs are taped to at least half the lockers, and purple and gold streamers hang from the ceiling in neat lines. During a study hall, a handful of students fill Tim Klein's classroom, and immediately set up a TV set and a VCR. Study hall on Friday means game films. The quarterback, Todd Martin, the starting center, Mike Nigh, a starting guard, Elwin Farnsworth. They watch the TV silently. I do not know if they can pick anything up. They look like they can. "What are you guys thinking about right now?" I asked them. "My blocking assignments," says Elwin, the guard. "No. 99," says Mike, the center. "Winning," says Todd, the quarterback. The last answer, of course, is the most interesting. I asked Todd if being the quarterback of the only team in town gave him any special privileges. he shrugged. "I have a pretty big scrapbook," he said. "Do people treat you special in the town?" I asked, feeling funny asking that of a high school senior. "Well," he said. "Like when I go to get the groceries, it takes me an hour. Everybody wants to talk." "If the Detroit Lions were playing down the street, I'd still be watching Frankfort." Sonny Nye, 46, sheet metal worker We were sitting in Mike's Pastry Shop on Main Street in the middle of the morning, having a cup of coffee. In walked Sonny Nye. Sonny Nye, like most of the men around here, played on the team himself. He coached the junior varsity in the days when they had to go door to door to recruit players. Nye is a big man, with a proud belly. He is missing a few teeth. He gets work from the union halls, and has to go where they send him, where there is work. "What time you get in?" someone asked him. "About 4:30 this morning," he said. "Where were you coming from?" I asked. "Flat Rock," he said. "I'm a sheet metal worker. Been doing some work down there lately." "But you don't have to work today," I said. "Well," he said, laughing, "I took the day off." "To see the game," I said. "Yeah, I wouldn't miss this." Now remember, Frankfort is not a wealthy town. On the contrary. It is part of one of the poorest counties in the state. Unemployment can run as high as 30 percent up here. Most of Frankfort's economy is based on tourism, and most of that is in the summer. "Maybe that's why football is so big," Nye said. "Things really slow down here after labor day. During the summer it can get pretty crowded. But after Labor Day . . . "But then, football has always been big around here. When you're a kid in this town, you can't wait to be a seventh grader so you can get on the junior varsity. When you're a seventh grader you can't wait to be a 10th grader. When you're a 10th grader you can't wait to be a senior. That's the way it works. Been that way when I was playing here too." We took sips of our coffee and looked out the window. "What if they told you, sorry, but if you take off for this football game, you lose your job," I asked Sonny. He paused but only for a moment. "I'd have to lose the job then," he said. "I tell the kids we came within two hours of the Silverdome last year. We want our season to be two hours longer this year." Tim Klein Tim Klein came to Frankfort in the late '70s with the idea of staying a few years and moving on. He accepted the football coaching job on a day in July, and within 10 minutes of his signing the contract, people in town were waving hello and wishing him luck. "I couldn't believe how fast word spread," he said. "I mean, this is a small town." He didn't have a lot to work with. Frankfort has only 195 students in grades nine through 12. Anyone who comes out for the team makes the team. The kids are not big, not particularly, and its only desire and effort that makes them play as well as they do. Last year, Klein's team made it to the semifinals of the playoffs. Had it won, it would have gotten a trip to play for the championship in the Silverdome in Pontiac. "A lot of the kids here have never been to Detroit in their lives," Klein said. So that is their goal this season. They have not lost a game yet. I asked Klein how old he was and he said 36. "Could you picture doing this job when you're 50 years old?" I asked. "If they'd have me," he said. This is what playoff Friday means in Frankfort. It means the art classes go outside in the morning and decorate the stands with purple and gold chains. It means the banner that they made last year -- "BEWARE! YOU ARE ENTERING PANTHER COUNTRY" -- will be hung on the side of the Pet Frozen Foods building in front of a spotlight, so you can see it at night from the field. It means the pep rally. It began at 3 p.m. and it was packed. The local radio station, WBNZ, was there and their sportscaster put on a Frankfort jersey and raised his hands and the place went wild. HEY YOU PANTHERS IN THE STANDS, STAND UP AND CLAP YOUR HANDS! The cheers rang loud for a solid 20 minutes. No let up. No end to the drumming. The freshman and sophomores and juniors and seniors all got a chance to see who could bust a gut screaming, and the elementary school kids sitting across the gym and the grandmothers and charterboat captains and painters and store owners and the superintendent and everyone else joined in. WE SAY PURPLE, YOU SAY GOLD PURPLE! PURPLE! GOLD! GOLD! "Nobody thought they'd miss the boats. But they did . . ." Jim Ricco In the late afternoon, between the pep rally and the game, Mary and I drove to the bay where the car ferry used to run. When that closed, more than 100 jobs were lost, a considerable amount in a town this small. It was a sign that a certain era had ended. Once, as many as seven ferries ran in these waters. But that was a long time ago. The terminal building was boarded up with dark wood, and its white paint was peeling. One large ferry, called The City Of Milwaukee, still sat in the water. It was to be turned into a museum, but a legal battle fouled that up, and now it just sits there, a hulking reminder of better days. There was a small office open and Mary and I walked inside. There was a young man and an older woman inside working. "Excuse me," I said to the man, introducing myself, "do you know what the 'AA' stands for on the ferry?" "Ann Arbor," he said. "Was that one they once used?" I asked. "Yeah,' he said, "for a little while." We talked a little bit about the town. His name was Jim Ricco and, like most people there, was surprised we came all the way from Detroit. We got ready to go. I asked him one more question. "Did you play football for Frankfort?" I asked. "Sure did," he said. "Early '70s." We drove away, past the rusting boxcars and the ferry. It was cold and quiet. I thought about what Ricco said, and something Sonny Nye had said about the young people needing to look elsewhere for work, and why football seemed to mean so much more here than in other places. The realization set in. The town was dying. "Football first, love second . . . I guess." Panthers quarterback Todd Martin, when asked how important girlfriends are in high school By 5:30, Klein was already in the locker room dressed in his coaching outfit: gray pants, purple shirt and white shoes. "Are you nervous?" I asked him. "Hell, yes," he said. A few minutes passed. Gradually the players wandered in, dead silent. They looked like kids, but not for long. They stripped out of their jeans and T-shirts and Reeboks and sat on the trainer's table. Klein taped their ankles, one by one, and they slipped Styrofoam pads over their thighs and plastic pads above their shoulders. They grew bigger. Thicker. Moment by moment. Little men turning to bigger men. One by one. They walked out to the gymnasium, their cleats echoing against the hardwood floor. Some lay down on the stage. Others just sat on the bleachers. They didn't peek outside to see the people coming. They didn't go looking for their parents. They stayed in the gym. Suddenly the corner door opened and there stood a player from Lake City, in full uniform. The whole Frankfort team turned to look. The player, who clearly had been directed to the wrong door, let it close very softly. There was an awkward pause. A few players glanced back and forth at one another, and then nothing. It was quiet again, except the slap of the football between two players, who were tossing it back and forth. "Nothing left to do but do it so let's . . . "DO IT!" Final words between Klein and his players before the game By 7:15, the field was mobbed. Cars and vans enveloped the area. If there was a store or gas station left open in town, it was by accident. Everyone, it seemed, was there. Grandmothers wrapped in blankets and construction workers still in their boots and children in pink and blue winter jackets hanging from the railing. There was room for about 200 people to sit in the wooden bleachers and the rest stood along the field. "The rest" numbered at least 2,000, all the way around, sidelines and end zones, four and five thick. A couple of bikers hoisted each other up on their shoulders for a better view. Several students climbed the side of the bleachers. "The Star-Spangled Banner" was played and then, instead of sitting down, the fans ran on the field and formed a human tunnel nearly 50 yards long. This is how they welcome their team. One by one the Frankfort starters were introduced and ran through this tunnel, a tunnel of their families, friends, their town. How could you not give a kidney to win with so many eyes on you? One boy, a 260-pound sophomore named Dan (Bubba) Banktson, ran through the tunnel with his eyes squinted closed and his mouth clenched in a roar and he looked frightening. "F! . . . H! . . . S!" hollered the cheerleaders. At that maddened moment, you realize the point of it all. Football here is a thread that weaves through the community. It is the way sports should be. It is town pride, town tradition. In truth, it is a birthright, a Ferris wheel that dips at a certain moment and scoops you up. These sons of Frankfort fathers do not play just because they are athletes. They play because it is their turn. Frankfort won the game, rather handily, 28-7. It had been close at halftime and you could sense the perspiration under all those layers of clothing. A long pass by Lake City with less than two minutes left had led them to a score. "Damn, we don't need that!" Sonny had screamed. "COME ON FRANKFORT! GET TOUGH!" cried the fans. No worries. Frankfort came out of the locker room and took control in the second half. By the end, a fullback named Scott Parsons would have 238 yards rushing, including a 64-yard touchdown. The cheerleaders would be hugging one another. When the final gun sounded, the Frankfort fans ran on the field and made another tunnel, and the team charged through again. In the locker room the players celebrated by spilling pop on one another, until Klein told them to cut it out, and to remember they had more games to play. After the game the players and their families gathered at a designated house, the adults upstairs, the kids in the basement. There were ham sandwiches and potato chips and coffee and soda and everyone crammed around the TV set to watch the highlights on the local news. When the screen replayed Parsons' touchdown, the living room let out a whoop and a cheer and Dell Parsons, the proud father, sat in the middle of it, his mouth half- opened in a smile. "Way to go," someone said to him, raising a can of beer. It was getting late. Mary and I said goodby and left in the same darkness in which we arrived. We slept a few hours in an airport Holiday Inn and by morning we were landing back in Detroit. The airport was stuffed and noisy and seemed to be more crowded than usual. The loudspeakers blasted flight information. A stewardess rushed by and nearly knocked me over. We were home. I looked at Mary, who was fixing her luggage, and got the sudden feeling that nothing we had just seen ever happened. How many miles away was Frankfort now? Was it still there? Were they eating in Fav's Grill? How strange, I thought. One hour away by plane. In the cab ride home, I closed my eyes for a minute, and this scene came back to me. It was late in the game, as the clock wound down, and it was clear Frankfort would live on for another week. It was very cold but the townspeople were all hugging each other and smiling and pointing at players. Sonny came over to me along the sideline, I don't know why, and amidst all the raucous cheering and celebrating, decided to tell me a quick story. "You know," he said, yelling, "a few years ago, I went to Tim and said, 'So, when are you going to leave us?' And he got all upset. He said, 'Why do you say that?' I said, 'Well, you're a young man, a good coach. You won't want to stay in a small town like this for very long.' I didn't think he would either . . . " He stopped to watch the final happy seconds tick away, and tucked his hands in his pockets, and laughed. " . . . but now," he continued, "now I know he'll stay at least five or six more years. I'm sure of that." And then he stopped. He didn't explain. So I asked. "How do you know that?" I said. He pointed across the field to a skinny 12-year-old boy who was watching the celebration with wide eyes and a frozen smile. "His son," Sonny said. "He wants to be quarterback." Frankfort freshman Travis Bailey spelled out his loyalty on the back of his head. Bailey also dyed his hair yellow and purple, the Panthers' school colors. Frankfort students and townspeople form a human tunnel as senior Brent Bradley takes the field Friday night. Left, Frankfort students show off their spirit chain, which is wrapped around the field. Center, a local business shows its support with a painted storefront window. Right, fans line up four deep along the sideline for Friday night's victory over Lake City. Townspeople and students flock to Mike's Pastry Shoppe for the doughnuts and the view. FRANKFORT;HIGH SCHOOL;MICHIGAN;FOOTBALL;REACTION