First & Mane
by Aug Stone
April 2024
A bristly story by Aug Stone, from his new collection, Sporting Moustaches.
Coming from a town with such a name, one might feel a kinship with outer space, may even be viewed as a bit of an oddball, and the same was no different for Coach Jason Jaspers of Jupiter College’s Fighting Jackrabbits. From an early age, Jaspers dressed in nonsensical colors and pattern combinations, affected smoking a pipe made from imitation ivory which he did not light or inhale, often feigning to forget it was hanging from his mouth though it kept a 45 degree angle out the left corner with almost military precision, and was an aficionado of avant-garde jazz and classical music, frequently manipulating the answer to a simple ‘how are you?’ through long digressions detailing his hopes of a merger between the two seemingly disparate compositional styles. His first year as coach, Jaspers would claim to have devised football plays based on the recent newspaper reports he’d read of the riots at the premiere of Stravinsky’s The Rite Of Spring that summer of 1913, strategies which no one bothered to question as long as they were effective, and he would later come to adore the music of Sun Ra, who himself claimed to be from Saturn. Jaspers could go one further, his birth certificate proving he was born right there in The Sunshine State’s own town of Jupiter. Jaspers was also the best coach that area of Florida had ever seen. Nearly undefeated, the only ones keeping him from that claim were archrivals The Torts, who hailed from the highly suspicious, even right down to its name, US Legal, an unaccredited school whose home field, if not amorphous campus, was an hour’s drive from Jupiter. The so-called ‘university’’s sole qualification for teaching law seemed to be their construction of a labyrinthine charter so complex that fans of their athletic department dare not question it.
Jupiter is said to be the planet of benevolence, producing leaders under the sign of Leo. Of course Jaspers had his Moon and Ascendant in Aquarius, which often accounts for eccentricity. But Coach Jaspers didn’t have much time for astrology, he had football games to win. His style of dress could be traced to him just throwing on whatever clothing item was found nearest his bed in the morning. If one looked closely enough they would notice deep teeth marks on the ivory pipe’s mouthpiece, a substitute for the cigarettes Jaspers would not smoke, setting an example for his team who needed all their lungpower to be the fastest in their division. And his love of those peculiar horn lines or the erratic vibrato on a particular violin passage stemmed from using these as springboards, allowing his mind to cultivate ever more unexpected plays, formations which were then scribbled down on the cocktail napkins of underground nightclubs all over the South. His strategies were seen as so strange at times that others believed he actually was taking directions from the cosmos. But you can’t argue with results, and you certainly wouldn’t want to argue with Jaspers.
An imposing man, at a bulky six foot three with enormous ears and flopping feet, his prominent feature still managed to be his facial hair, a sort of moustache/goatee combo that there isn’t readily a name for. Being as it was shaped like a J around his mouth. Straight moustache across upper lip, then connecting down the right hand side to curl under his chin and back up slightly, completing a little half-loop on the left, punctuated by the unlit pipe. It gave a sense of self, and served to remind people who they were speaking to, as the J was styled to face the public.
When at work, which was almost always, Jaspers’ conspicuous clothes were covered by the lapis blue and caramel school jacket depicting their own Jack the Jackrabbit on the back. Slightly hairier than your average hare, with giant ears and long strong feet, your casual onlooker could not be faulted for guessing that Jaspers himself had posed as the model for this mascot. The truth is spookier. The artist had placed his design on the Athletic Director’s desk not twenty minutes before Jaspers walked in to apply for the coaching job. Despite what he wore underneath said jacket, Coach Jaspers nevertheless demanded his team also present themselves accordingly when at work on the field. And part of the uniform was facial hair. Not just any moustache or beard either. Each position had its own specific style, something that reflected the nature of its role in the greater context of the line-up. But as one’s whiskers are such a highly personal growth, almost a talisman of sorts, Jaspers encouraged his players to put their own individual spin on that spot. By the mid-1930s, young athletes in the area hoping to one day attend Jupiter College would often choose where in the lineup they wanted to be based on the beards they most admired.
To illustrate these fashions, let us take a look at the Fighting Jackrabbits roster going into the autumn 1938 season. Fullback Allan Keenan sported a full beard, going, as it did, all the way to the rear. Halfback Elliot Daniels featured a sort of extended goatee, not receding into the full distance though pushing the boundaries of strictly fifty-fifty, and with the corners sharpened to highlight his ability to pivot. Ends traditionally deployed bulging mutton chops and those featured on the faces of Lee Geddes and Neil Lifeson were no different. Wide receivers Randy Osbourne and Alan Morissette adopted the time-honored tactic of shaving oblong shapes into their beards, ready spaces for the ball to fall into. Quarterback Tom Reed displayed the toothbrush moustache, known then as the Charlie Chaplin, the style in his case metaphorically showing the ball as a tiny patch of hair sailing over the field of the lips. Defending Reed this year were Greg Williams, Peter Knight, and Bobby Lande, whose roles as linemen were seen in the bars of hair extended straight out from their philtrums in both directions. Coach Jaspers always spurred on new recruits to grow these as broad as possible, to stretch them out as far as they could reach, with the above trio certainly testing the limits of gravity this summer.
As curious as the conjunction of the Jackrabbit mascot blueprint arriving and Coach Jaspers’ hiring, during tryouts for the upcoming season, onto the field walked one Helmut Zweck, freshman. His name was taboo, especially as rumors were heavily circulating that this was to be the final season before headgear would be required in college ball. But he shared with Jaspers the immovable belief that one’s hair should suffice as one’s helmet, and of his own he had fashioned those mutton chops worn by the Fighting Jackrabbits’ ends into thick strips of lightning descending down his cheeks, guarding a football shape etched front and center into his chin. As he discussed his convictions regarding regulation equipment with Coach Jaspers, it was readily apparent that he would make the team, but what really clinched the deal was his explanation that lightning represented the speed that he travelled as both tight end and on the defensive line. “Where my family comes from, these . . .” Helmut craned his neck skyward, pointing proudly to the strokes, “are known as ‘blitz’.” Jaspers nodded, he liked the sound of this.
Coach encouraged his team to show off their beards and moustaches, believing them an integral part of each player’s personality, radiant glories that this new helmet rule sought to dim. Already the headgear that was in play at some of the less fashion-conscious schools went over the ears by a good margin, rendering invisible most if not all of each highly cultivated, and highly adored, sideburn. It was here too that Jaspers seemed tuned into outer space, able to sense the future, for he could often be heard declaring that once the coverings began, it would only be a matter of time before more protection would mask their very mouths and all that sprouted around them. Jaspers, whose own head went to some faraway places, couldn’t quite bring himself to believe the reasons helmets were becoming mandatory. The safety of his squad was important, yes, but blocking their faces and the totems he felt ensured the team’s success was a cost almost too great to bear. He was essentially an honest man who believed all you needed to know about an athlete could be read in their facial hair. Oh what darkness would come into play when this would be obscured. He also regarded the seconds after the final whistle blew to be among the most inspirational scenes one could take in anywhere, whether by youths who fantasize of one day being on the field themselves, ex-cons trying to set speedboat jumping records in a remote bayou, or bootleggers transporting ever more ludicrous amounts of alcohol from Texas to Georgia, all could find the necessary motivation in the sunlight beaming off these regal sweat-soaked hairstyles straight into the eyes of the crowd. They bestowed upon everyone the power to make their own dreams come true. For over a decade now, years before Aleister Crowley would claim to have passed the symbol on to British Military Intelligence, Jaspers had pushed this golden moment further by having his team shape their post-game ’taches into Vs for Victory. This being easiest for kicker Vinny Ventura whose own strands stopped just short of his corneas, already waxed out and up into the two vertical bars of a goal post. Jaspers wasn’t head coach for nothing.
By the start of the season proper, word had officially come down that this would be the last year bare play was allowed in the league, and Jaspers intended to make the most of it. Fans were encouraged to attend with their own stubble styled to match that of their favorite player. For those who could not grow enough facial hair, fake fur was sold at the concession stands. All the proceeds, like the moustaches themselves, went towards the glory of the team. An extra bus was hired to carry such costumed fans out to Port Marino for the first away game of the season. The PM Shadows coach, Rip Cordes, was outspoken about Jaspers’ showmanship, though many felt this was poorly-disguised jealousy considering the paltry size of the Port Marino home crowd. A good percentage of Shadows fans in attendance even forking out for Fighting Jackrabbits face wigs of their own, impressed with the rookie tight end’s performance, but more by Helmut’s girlfriend, Betty Hamilton, who led the boisterous cheerleading squad whilst sporting her beau’s trademark lightning chops.
The Jackrabbits blew Port Marino out of the water, 48-3. Helmut Zweck playing like an aquatic bunny on fire. Leaping over fleets of opponents to catch twelve passes, including one in the endzone and another he ran 40 yards for a second touchdown, zigzagging and jumping over diving defenders all the way. On defense he sacked Shadows quarterback Cliff Marvin three times. The highlight of the game came late in the third quarter when Helmut picked up a Port Marino fumble and ran it back 80 yards to score again. He truly lived up to the lightning on his cheeks. And let’s not forget Reed himself, who ran the ball for 75 yards, not so much because the Shadows defense warranted any scrambling but simply because he could.
As the season pressed on, The Jackrabbits were unstoppable. The connection between Reed and Zweck became almost telepathic, with Reed soon shaving the sides of his head into thunder cloud formations, firing the ball to Helmut wherever he was on the field. The quarterback was pleased as punch the first time someone referred to him as ‘Thunder Reed’, becoming blissful as an all-out brawl as further usage of this nickname spread.
Per usual, Jupiter College found itself facing US Legal in the final game of the season, and with both teams undefeated and playing so spectacularly, the winner would be going on to the Cannon Bowl that December in Winter Haven. While The Torts were sure to give Jaspers and co. a run for their money, Coach J played it cool in public, telling Jupiter’s school newspaper, The Read Spot, that the game would be ‘a piece of cake.’ Privately he was less convinced. The Torts were universally hated, but they were a force to be reckoned with. Their green and brown uniforms, however, like camouflage, seemed to be hiding something. No one quite knew how they even qualified to be in the league. And as if to mock the Jackrabbits, The Torts had already been wearing helmets all season of their own accord. This confirmed Coach Jaspers’ deepest beliefs, for the US Legal squad had no concern for common safety, and would regularly kick a player in the head after he was down. No, these outer shells of theirs were definitely concealing an interior most dark. The Torts’ playing style was in line with what they taught at US Legal, long wars of attrition, seen in their short passing and running game, slowly gaining yardage up the field. Also like the school itself, their victories regularly had the ring of the criminal about them. Not a game went by without disputed calls, subterfuge, and acts of aggression that lingered just below what could be counted as a penalty. Since US Legal’s inception ten years ago in 1928, The Jackrabbits and The Torts were an even 5-5 against each other, the new law school somehow managing to stay in business despite the country entering The Depression.
The morning before the big game, Tom Reed awoke in his car on the side of an unknown road with his tires deflated. He vaguely recalled being at a party the night before, down towards Boca Raton, and his hangover confirmed this. Glancing into his rearview mirror, his red eyes bulged as he let out a scream and then another one, this time tinged with vengeance. The patch of hair above his upper lip, the fuzz of the football, was gone. It was another moment before he noticed that one of his thunder clouds had been shaved off too. He might not be able to prove it in court, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this could only be the action of a Tort. He hitchhiked back to Jupiter and, with there being no easy way of breaking the news, went straight to the coach’s office.
Jaspers was furious. Trashcans were kicked, lockers dented, oaths sworn to high heaven. US Legal would not get away with this. There was more riding on the game now than they ever could have imagined. Besides being possibly the last chance their beautiful facial locks might ever get to be on display, unencumbered by any sort of cover, a further score needed settling with their archrivals. Jaspers spent long hours alone in his office making impassioned telephone calls and wildly sketching new patterns into his playbook. He eventually emerged a much calmer man, possessed of an heroic confidence. When Coach Jaspers then sent his linemen to the local naval base for training, they did not question him. Nor did Reed when later that day, a wizened Chinese herbalist arrived at the field, himself possessing a magnificent kneelength white beard, and began to apply tinctures and lotions to Tom’s upper lip, all hoping that the quarterback might be able to sprout back what he had lost overnight. The thunder clouds beneath his temples would be substituted with what was on sale at the concession stand, but Reed longed to flaunt at least some amount of authenticity during the big game. When he awoke the morning of the match, this time thankfully in his own bed, there was just the slightest bit more growth than two days stubble would suggest. Reed looked himself in the mirror and was ready.
From the opening kick-off, it was carnage. US Legal doing whatever they could to take out Helmut, who nonetheless managed to blaze over, under, and through their various attempts to trip, straight-arm, or flat-out punch him as he ran for more yardage. Tort linebackers Franklin and Keyes surrounded Zweck like electrons to his nucleus, doubleteaming him every play, whether he had the ball or not. But the violence wasn’t only confined to the man with the lightning chops. Thrice, US Legal had to be warned about headbutting, even their own crowd booing the helmeted players who attempted to knock noses with their bareheaded opponents.
Halfway through the fourth quarter, it finally happened. With the score tied 28-28, Helmut caught a pass on The Torts’ 20-yard line as Franklin crashed into Zweck’s upper body from the front while Keyes dove into the backs of his knees. The entire Torts team then piled on top. When the mess cleared, a mildly hallucinating Helmut insisted he would finish out the game despite not being able to move enough to kneel, let alone stand up. As he was carried out on a stretcher, Coach Jaspers focused his mind on what he had begun to put in motion the day before. Drunk on blood, with their next possession The Torts drove the ball up the Jackrabbits half, kicking a field goal at the 15-yard line to put them ahead by three. Helmut, refusing to leave the sidelines, sat touching the tips of his lightning bolts and staring out at his teammates with a gaze of such intensity no one dared walk in front of him lest they disturb whatever vibes he was sending out. With fifteen seconds left on the clock, Reed managed to get the ball to The Torts’ two-yard line before Jaspers called for a time-out. The moment had come to put his masterplan into action. Since this might very well be their moustaches’ last play, it was going to be memorable. Arriving back at the line of scrimmage, Williams, Knight, and Lande applied what they had learned from yesterday’s naval instructor, quickly tying the long bars of hair above their lips together to form an unassailable wall. The pigskin was snapped and, heads together, they dug in for their very lives. Constant groans of agony with facial expressions to match emanated from the men as they stood their ground. A brutal, difficult scene to witness, and yet it captured everything Coach Jaspers felt inside about the helmet regulations coming into play, the field holding a mirror to Jaspers’ very soul. The trio somehow managed to stay on their feet and in front of Reed, who ran right looking for an open Osbourne or Morissette before switching back up left with Geddes and Lifeson moving in to block for him. Everything seemed to happen in slow-motion—the pangs of pain traversing the faces of Williams, Knight, and Lande, Helmut miraculously standing, still beaming positive energy to his teammates via his temples, and finally Reed barreling up the middle to dive up and over The Torts’ defensive line and into their end zone as the whistle blew. The Jackrabbits winning 34-31.
The crowd went wild, rushing down onto the field and lifting Reed aloft on jubilant shoulders. Jaspers ecstatically hoisting the rest of his team up too, intent on giving the moustaches their exultant due. It was some time before the bodies of Williams, Knight, and Lande were found unconscious on the ground, their faces still close to each other, deeply etched with wild contortions of pain. They were brought to the hospital along with Zweck. The following day US Legal issued a protest against Jupiter’s linemen tying their hair together for the fateful play but before any decision could be reached, the ersatz law school would disappear overnight following accusations of racketeering.
Three weeks later Jupiter College went on to win The Cannon Bowl, 47–21, defeating the Hollywood Endings. It was a fine finale for the glorious facial hair of The Fighting Jackrabbits. Helmut Zweck, who missed the bowl game due to a broken tibia, recovered enough to distinguish himself over his next three years at JC, his prowess undiminished even when required to wear his namesake atop his head. Jaspers remained as head coach despite the game not meaning as much for him anymore. He would live to see his predictions about the totality of face masks come true, but by then he had moved to New York City, leaving the sport behind and spending most of his time immersed in the free jazz scene of the 1960s, himself taking up the jaleika. Still, he was proud of what he had accomplished as coach and of the many fine grooming styles with which his players had come to be known. Whenever he would hear Sun Ra, after some mindbending performance or other, claim to be from Saturn, Jaspers would smile and whisper to himself, “And I’m from Jupiter.”
Illustrations by Allen Crawford.
Aug Stone's Sporting Moustaches is published today, by Sagging Meniscus.
