It is January 1978 when Michael Crabtree leaves his hometown of Virginia Beach, Virginia, with a backpack, one hundred dollars, a notebook of poems, a guitar case, and his lost dreams. Having recently lost his athletic scholarship at North Carolina State University due to a football injury, Michael decides to hitchhike to Houston, Texas, to seek work in the oilfields. In his memoir Passage Rites: Adversity's Challenge, Michael chronicles how, halfway through his first year in Houston, he decides to return home to continue his college education. But everything changes the morning of December 30, 1978, when two Virginia Beach policemen knock on his parents' door and place him under arrest for armed robbery-a crime he never committed. As Michael is thrown into a jail cell to await his fate, he rings in 1979 with his fellow prisoners and quietly wonders what will become of his life. As he returns to Texas to face his accusers, Michael soon realizes that his journey to the truth will not be easy. This is the inspiring true story of a young man who, when he was faced with an unjust incarceration, adversity, and the theft of his innocence, never gave up.
Passage Rites
Adversity's ChallengeBy Michael W. CrabtreeiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Michael W. Crabtree
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-5119-8Contents
Introduction..........................................................ix1. Changes: Who Are You?..............................................12. Cement Walls and Metal Nets........................................243. Twenty-fifth Anniversary Reception: Fitting In.....................544. Preparing for the Return...........................................775. The Difficult Journey to Houston...................................1016. Prelude to Unknown Future..........................................1197. Finally, the Truth.................................................1438. Endings............................................................161Epilogue..............................................................175
Chapter One
Changes: Who Are You?
The summer heat was intense, especially when in full football gear for summer practices. It was late August. NC State University's 1976 football season was to begin in less than two weeks. Coach Lou Holtz left the football program after the 1975 season, when the team finished the year ranked tenth in the country. We had played in the Peach Bowl, in Atlanta, on New Year's Eve of 1976. As a freshman, I was thrilled and excited by the whole thing, playing in front of more than seventy thousand people. I had spent years looking forward to such opportunities.
Bo Rein had taken over as head coach. He had different methods of coaching than Lou Holtz and was trying to make changes that more reflected his coaching philosophy. There had been some position changes, but nothing major. During the spring practices in 1976, I had earned a starting offensive position for the coming season.
The summer had gone much as expected. We had progressed from mere conditioning and play practicing to full-speed contact between the starting offensive and defensive players. Today was the last full contact before the first game. We broke from the huddle, and I trotted to my position as flanker. My friend and former roommate, Tom Ebner, lined up across from me as the defensive strong safety. Now sophomores, he and I had become fast friends from the start. The play to be run was a curling pass pattern, to me. Having stopped at my location in the offensive formation, I glanced at Tom before getting down into my set stance.
Tom was from Houston: a square-jawed, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Texan, six feet two inches tall, and two hundred-ten pounds. He was fast and physical. He outweighed me by thirty pounds, but I was quicker. In order to get open, I thought, I would need to try making Tom think I would go deep. I glanced at the quarterback, then back at Tom. He had taken two steps farther away from the line of scrimmage. This could be tough.
On the previous play, I faked a pattern to the inside and tried to break past Tom. He was caught by my fake and would have been beaten on the play had he not slammed a forearm into my chest as I tried to run past him. Now, giving himself more distance from me, it would be difficult for me to make Tom respect a deep pattern fake. The curl pattern would not give me sufficient room to do that.
The play began. I reached the practiced distance from the line of scrimmage, as a known number of steps. As I was about to turn, I could tell Tom had not given any ground. This would be close. I pivoted, absorbing momentum with my right leg to come to an almost halted position, knees slightly bent and legs apart, ready to locate the ball's position.
The ball had been thrown high. I did not think, only reacted. One of my athletic gifts had always been unusual leaping ability. I went up very high for the pass, stretching my arms as high as I could to gather in the ball. I felt the leather against my fingertips, looking at the ball coming into my hands. That is what we were taught: watch the ball all of the way into your hands.
I felt the sudden contact at the small of my back. Tom was driving his shoulder pad into me, to force me to drop the pass. Next was an abnormal movement. My torso and arms, above the impact point, momentarily remained where they were. My hips and legs, beneath the contact point, remained where they were. It was as if I was being folded backward at that one point in my spine. Tom drove forward as he was running. I felt something snap in my back.
I was still watching the ball as it was going through my hands. Tom's impact had forced my arms to splay apart, and the ball passed between my hands. My upper body pitched forward, and I looked first at the horizon level and then at the grass. My arms fell into position in front of my chest, slightly flexed to absorb the impending contact with the ground. Tom's momentum caused his body to move over mine as we both fell forward. He landed on top of me and rolled off. The impact caused me to exhale involuntarily. It took a moment to regain my breath.
Tom was quickly on his feet. "You all right, Crab?" Tom asked, using the nickname he had given me shortly after we met. He came over and reached down to help me up.
"I don't know," I replied, finding it difficult to breathe. I raised myself from the ground, kneeling on one knee. "Trainer!" I hollered. I continued kneeling as he approached. My breathing was returning to normal, and I did not feel any pain. Maybe I was okay. "I felt something give," I told him when he reached me. I stood up, placing my hands on my flexed knees, bent over.
"Is it hurting?" he asked.
"No."
"Where did you feel it?"
I reached my right hand back, running fingers near the base of my spine. "Here."
The trainer ran his hand lightly along my spine, feeling either side, perhaps for abnormal protrusions. He stopped after a few moments. "I don't feel anything. Try walking a bit, to see if you can feel anything different. We'll take a look at you after practice."
"We" didn't take a look at me after practice, at least not any physical examination. There was a little bit of soreness in the muscles just to the right of my spine. Cold compresses were applied for a while. I showered as usual and got dressed. During the remainder of summer practices, I applied hot and cold compresses. The aching in the muscles on one side did not subside.
I played the first game and was in pain afterward. My parents and an aunt and uncle had come to watch the game. I met them outside the locker room after the game. We had intended to go to dinner. Instead, I asked that they go themselves. I returned to my dorm room in pain.
Three days later, all I could feel in my right leg was pain. I had no muscular control of it. The collision with Tom Ebner had broken a bone near the base of my spine, and the nerves to my right leg were being compressed. I missed one game, in traction in the infirmary, and then played in the season's remaining games.
It is not something I regret, as the memories will remain with me until my last breath. I would always be thankful to NC State for the opportunity. The guys I played with were great guys. Some went on to play professional football. One, Bill Cowher, has gone on to coach the Pittsburgh Steelers to become Super Bowl Champions. We must sometimes make personal decisions that lead to uncharted territory. Having been told that another collision could permanently paralyze me, I finally decided to give up playing football. That meant giving up my athletic scholarship as well.
Always academically oriented, I...
