After the coaches stepped in front of me during the Zulu parade to block a group of boys from St. Rose, things slowly but surely got better, both in the school building and on the practice field.

Some of the coolest and most well-known upperclassmen started showing me a little love. Like the crew from St. Rose that represented Preston Hollow, or “The Hollow.” That group was led by Jerry Clay, the coolest dude I had ever come across at Destrehan. Jerry used to match every day. I’m talking full coordination: a red Kangol hat, red silk shirt, Girbaud jeans, and matching red shoes. I could be wrong, but I want to say it was a pair of Ballys. Every day, Jerry had on a different color Kangol with a matching outfit.

Another big figure in that crew was Big Floyd Marbley. He was quiet, but you definitely didn’t want to end up on his bad side. They started showing me mad love. During lunch, Jerry and Floyd would call me over to sit with them. Those guys always had me laughing.

One particular day, Jerry called me over:

“Hey D! Come see, man.”

So I walked over and sat down.
“What’s up, man? You good?” Jerry asked.
“I heard you be doing your thing on the football field. Man, you cool with us. But your cousin Kurt… I might have to hurt him.” He said it laughing.
I replied, “Man, if y’all fighting, I ain’t got a problem with that. But if it’s anything else, then I might have something to say about it.”

I also can’t forget my boy Alfred “Bag” Williams. He was the only person I knew during summer workouts. Bag eventually stopped playing football, but he always stuck with his Preston Hollow crew. He was the tallest of the group and usually rolled with two other guys besides Jerry and Floyd: Lamus Haynes and Greg Baker. They both played football and started treating me like a little brother.

One night in LaPlace, in front of the skating rink, a guy I knew started messing with me—just because I went to Destrehan. Right at that moment, Lamus (Slim), Greg (Champ), and Alfred (Bag) pulled up. Bag jumped out in the middle of the road and said:

“If you want to mess with somebody who goes to Destrehan, mess with me.”

That dude didn’t want no problems with Bag. He walked away, and that was that.

I also got cool with some of the older guys from Norco—like Otis Perrilloux and my boy KT (Kevin Turley). KT was shorter than me but tough as nails. He had the look I wanted on the football field—the kind that said, “You better not mess with me.” I had mad respect for both KT and Otis because they never started stuff, but they could definitely finish it.

By this point, practice was becoming fun. As we got ready for district play, Coach Simon made a decision: every week, I would wear the number of the best offensive player from the team we were preparing to face. That meant when we played Lutcher High, I’d be #1 for Wil Ursin at QB or #4 for Dale Brach at RB. When we played John Curtis, I wore #32 for Randy Brown at RB.

Each week gave me a chance to show what kind of player I was. Coach Simon knew I’d give max effort in practice. The thinking was simple—if we can stop Damon Mason, we can stop their guy. That was all I needed.

But something was still missing… until one Friday night against Northshore High.

I was a ball boy for that game, but also expected to pay attention. Coach Simon or Coach Rebowe (my DB coach) would ask questions mid-game. During this game, I was standing on Northshore’s sideline when something happened that we didn’t usually see.

OJ (Oliver Aguilard) broke loose up the middle on a 22 Trap play! He was short, built like the Hulk up top, and had legs like Dalton Hilliard. Known more for power than speed, but on this run—he was gone! I’m jumping up and down, cheering hard for him. Then, out of nowhere, the Northshore head coach yelled something at me.

I don’t remember exactly what he said—and I definitely won’t tell you what I said back—but I will tell you my thought process:

“Who the hell does this white man think he’s talking to?”

He called the ref over, probably told him what I said. The ref jogged across the field to Coach Simon. Next thing I know, Coach Simon is waving me over. I jog across the field, not knowing my life is about to change.

As soon as I got there—
“Blah blah blah, blah blah blah!”
Coach Simon was letting me have it. Not one curse word, but it felt like thunder in my ears. And I couldn’t hear a thing he said. All I could hear in my head was something I was told years earlier while playing baseball in St. John Parish:

“Damon, when you get to high school, them white coaches ain’t gonna put up with your attitude!”

Right then, I had a decision to make. I was having a full conversation in my head:
“Do I stand here and let this white man talk to me like this? Or do I do something different this time?”

I chose to stand there… and cry.

That’s when I finally heard Coach Simon say:
“Go take off that jersey.”

That moment changed everything.

I walked to the back of the sideline where the water and coolers were. I didn’t even take the jersey off because I didn’t have on an undershirt. I sat down on the bench, head in my hands, crying like a baby. All I could think about was how I had been warned—my attitude would get me in trouble.

Then, all of a sudden, Coach Simon walked over.
He sat next to me.
He put his arm around me.
And he gently whispered:

“Damon, we don’t do that here. When you put that jersey on, you represent the school, the team, and your family.”

From that night on, Coach Simon could do no wrong in my eyes. Whatever he asked of us—or of me—I gave my all. I became an enforcer for how we did things.

That was the night I fully accepted what it meant to be a Fighting Wildcat.