A Bloody Spiral

They say blood, sweat, and tears are part of the game of football, but no one mentioned that it might all happen on the same play. Surprisingly, that was the case for me early in my football career.

My signature throw was conceived on September 6, 1978. I had no idea that I was actually duck hunting.

It was a flawless early-fall day—cool on the ends and warm in the middle. I woke at 6:45 am, wound into a ball of anticipation. I eyed the crisp, all-white uniform. I was a proud member of the Newport Beach Cheyennes. At nine years old, I would play in my first tackle football scrimmage. There wouldn’t be any more flag stroking and four-leaf clover searching. Little did I know, however, that my debut in the big time would be nothing short of a bloodbath.

Marv met me at my bedroom door in his gray sweats, examining his Casio watch. “Time to get out of first gear,” he declared with more energy than my fourth-grade class at recess.

I knew the drill. It was the Spartan warrior credo: the one who sweats more in training bleeds less in war—at least, that was the theory. We’d complete some footwork and light cardio before 7:30 am. But first, I had to stomach the dreaded shamrock shake. It was named after its shocking green hue that put fresh clovers to shame. Chock-full of spirulina, it tasted like—no, it was—swamp water. As sure as sunrise, an algae-like film and a healthy amount of grainy bee pollen lingered on my tongue. After downing my doses with ritualistic discipline, my green mustache and I marched toward Marv. It was time to get busy in the dojo.

I followed his instructions to the letter, nearing autopilot it was so familiar. I was barefoot on the balance board, wiggling my body like a snake climbing a hill. Side to side I went, altering my angle and dropping back. It tested my ability to bring the board into balance—an experience of adversity for the body that mirrored life. I had to adjust, pivot, and rediscover my center. After ten minutes of board time, we ran some suicides on the grass. Then we polished it off with a half-mile jog. It was nothing rigorous, just enough to get my body humming.

At the field, Coach called our first play: “Twenty-two double out.” I huddled with the team, barking it back with fire in my chest. The offensive line was loose—some distracted by beetles, some by the crowd. But when the whistle blew, I launched the ball. It wobbled like a duck but landed.

Then came the third play. I was now the lead blocker. Full of fire, I surged forward—Red Rocket mode. I collided with a defensive lineman and felt a crack in my head. A hot stream poured from my nose.

My white uniform turned crimson. I looked down—it was soaked in blood. Coach ran over, concerned. But Marv stepped up with one word: “Quarterback.”

Coach froze, then nodded. “Quarterback it is.”

I lined up again, blood still dripping, and called the play. Calm washed over me. I stepped back and unleashed a spiral. It floated, red mist trailing behind. It was quite a sight.

That play would echo years later—same angle, same throw, to Johnnie Morton in the end zone against UCLA over a decade later.

More than a nosebleed, the moment taught me something else: pain is temporary. Mental strength wins the war. Sure, football is undeniably physical, but more than anything, it’s a mind game. That’s what Marv knew. And that’s what I quickly learned on that early fall day.

For more, check out Marinovich at https://www.marinovichbook.com.