There was a flag on the play.

And the Great God of the Turf sayeth, “Betwixt the Touch of the Passing, and the Downs of the Rushing, thou shalt split not asunder, for they are of the equal holy Six in my sight. Also wilt thou, with Gleesome Joy, welcome the Goal of the Field which arriveth in the seconds of finality.”

Even just driving through Texas, including the short strip across the Panhandle, it is obvious to the casual observer that High School Football is a religion, a celebration of Friday Sacraments.

Celebrated as a hallowed ritual of that faith is the biannual meeting of Texas high school football coaches in the city of Galveston. A priestly pilgrimage to the sand, sun, and sea. The stated reasons are to discuss rules, rule changes, new methods of training and safety, and for coaches to exchange tips and knowledge. (Though the thought that knowledge and adolescent concussions can actually be related is a bit problematic.)

Times back, in Houston, my wife (known by the Beagle Posse as, “The Morning Food Lady”) worked at a law firm with a woman whose husband was one of those coaches. Said coach referred to by said wife as, “Coachypoo.”

As was the custom in such Texas households, this wife was in charge of packing Coachypoo's bags for a Galveston meeting. Which she dutifully did.

Before his departure, Mr. Coach informs wife, “Don't try to reach me tonight. The first night we always spend fishing out on one of the Red Snapper boats.” (Our tale takes place in the days before Cell Phones.)

Upon his return home 3 days later, Wifey asked Coachypoo, “How was your meeting?”

“Fine,” he replied. “Except you forgot to pack any clean underwear for me.”

“Oh, yes, I packed it,” smiled wife. (A smile NO husband wants to see.) “It was in your tackle box.”