By Lindsay Toler
By Chad Garrison
By Allison Babka
By Lindsay Toler
By Jake Rossen
By Lindsay Toler
By Kelsey McClure
By Lindsay Toler
Everything is ready.
Two tubs of Gatorade -- one original recipe, the other orange -- sit on the first row of bleachers here at Versailles High School, right next to a box full of footballs and a portable stereo playing Judas Priest's "You've Got Another Thing Coming."
Yesterday's rain has eased up, leaving the field muddy but manageable. These tryouts at Versailles (that's "Ver-sayles," in central-Missouri vernacular) are just a temporary affair. Joe Eldridge, general manager of the state's first -- and most certainly fledgling -- women's professional-football team says the Missouri Prowlers will use the Kennedy High School field in Springfield for games. "It's Astroturf," he proclaims. "Hopefully, in five or six years, we'll be able to build our own stadium with the help of the state."
He sounds serious as a safety blitz. Then again, he's wearing a Carolina Panthers jacket.
While the rest of Missouri goes ga-ga over the Rams the day before the Super Bowl, Eldridge is here, awaiting women willing to pay $140 for the privilege of landing a spot on his Women's Professional Football League team. So far, just two have shown up, leaving him 53 players short of a full roster. On the basis of e-mails from people as far away as Illinois and Colorado, he's expecting about 30. And so he and his assistants wait. Perhaps, they speculate, an ice storm in the Kansas City area is delaying traffic.
Not so in the case of Rebecca Jackson. A bartender for a Kansas City casino, Jackson drove three hours and got here right on time. She's more than ready. "I want to hit people," she explains. "It's the only time I can do it legally. Boxing's too much of a pain."
Jackson is a former high-school shot-putter who also played volleyball, but deep down she's always been a football player. She has no idea what position she should play, so long as it isn't center -- her father, a former high-school player, has told her that centers are prone to finger injuries. Concussions, torn knee ligaments and twisted ankles don't concern her -- she's competed against men in other sports and come out fine. "Just my fingers," she says. "Everything else is mendable."
Jackson really wants to play football, badly enough that she has considered moving out of Missouri. There are no fewer than seven women's football leagues in the country, but the closest team is in Tennessee. Last year, Jackson tried out for the Minnesota Vixens and New England Storm but backed out after injuring both quadriceps muscles. It may have been for the best. The inaugural season of the WPFL was hardly an example of how to succeed at pro sports. Promised $100 a game at season's end, the players got stiffed. Several games were canceled for lack of travel money. In Houston, cheerleaders from Hooter's, a team sponsor, quit three games into the season.
Eldridge isn't promising his players anything but a good time. Tryout fees will be used to buy equipment and pay other expenses. "If we have any money left over, we'll split it among the players," he says. His reason for starting the team is simple: "I love football." He's gone so far as to call Rams owner Georgia Frontiere for advice. He says she sounded curious and passed along the name of a guy who ended up designing the Prowlers logo for free.
Serious hip and head injuries sustained in an automobile accident cut short Eldridge's own gridiron career, ending his chances to play in college. Before that, he played wide receiver for the Eldon High School Mustangs. Now, he's unemployed but trying to land a job with the Missouri Water Patrol. He's not concerned about the WPFL's shaky record. "The league has restructured, and they've turned the league basically over to team owners," he says. "We vote on everything."
Cheerleading tryouts were supposed to have been held today, but cheerleaders for chick football are even scarcer than players. No one has come to shake her wares to the strains of Aerosmith or Mötley Crüe. An hour after tryouts were set to start, his two would-be players are getting cold and antsy. And so, clipboard in hand, Eldridge and his posse head to the field. En route, he tosses a ball underhand to Crystal Caldwell. It is the last reception she'll make today.
Caldwell ran track in high school, but she confesses she hasn't been too athletic for the past four years. "I always wanted to play," she says. "I just didn't know how. The opportunity wasn't there. I played flag football in junior high. That's a long time ago." She found out about today's tryout from a flier posted at Columbia College, where she goes to school. "I showed everybody at school," she says. "They just started laughing. My stepdad wanted to come out and laugh at me, but I told him to stay home."
Under orders from Eldridge, Jackson and Caldwell affix numbers to their chests -- they are Nos. 1 and 2, respectively -- and pose for mug-style photographs. Eldridge sets up four cones near the end zone, marking the corners of a large rectangle. Jackson and Caldwell take turns alternately running, then backpedaling, around the rectangle's perimeter. The next exercise consists of dashing 10 yards, picking up a football from the ground, then running back to Eldridge, who sneaks occasional peeks at photocopied pages from a coaching book, Drills That Make a Difference.