By Phil Murphy
Content Editor, DigitalSports.com
** Watch the videos from the kicking camp finale in the video player below the editorial.
An Editorial
Despite three days of stretching and going through the drills Tyler Bitancurt taught me, I still felt enormously sore and pretty unprepared for Day Two of my private kicking camp at West Springfield. I’ve played soccer since I was four, but I completely underestimated the number of intricacies that went into kicking something as seemingly direct as an extra point.
Beyond that, while Tyler and I were stretching, he opened my eyes to the added heat to which place kickers are subjected at the collegiate level.
Paul Woodside, an eight-year volunteer assistant coach for the Spartans, was an All-American at West Virginia in 1983 and transformed Tyler from a soccer phenom to a top kicking prospect.
Woodside would throw everything from water bottles to footballs at Tyler during his approach, training Bitancurt to never lose focus, opposing fans and kick difficulty notwithstanding.
Tyler mentioned the death threats that West Virginia kicker Pat McAfee, a rising senior, received from Mountaineer supporters last season when a pair of first-half field goals against rival Pittsburgh in a 13-9 loss. McAfee’s car was vandalized and his off-campus residence surrounded by villagers as if he were Frankenstein’s monster.
I’m so glad I only kick for a club-level flag football team.
After a brief warm-up, Tyler and I approached the first of two competitions. There’s no cute name for it, but the purpose is to hit the left upright, kicking from the back left corner of the end zone. It’s essentially a 25-yard field goal with a six-inch-wide target.
In a half dozen attempts, I had both the closest and ugliest attempt.
We’ll start with the closest.
I mean, there’s really not much to talk about. It missed the pole by less than a foot, curling left just enough to tease me into thinking I would take a lead.
The ugliest has more of a story.
“It kind of went like this,” Tyler said, spinning the two tips of the ball in circles between his palms with genuine constructive criticism. “I don’t know how to explain it. It was like a dead duck. I’m going to be honest, you saw it. When you strike it, [it’s because of] how your ankle is. Your toe was up.
“But you’re a good hunter.”
A good hunter that tied, 0-0.
We moved on to H-O-R-S-E. I could no longer hide behind the veil of hoping Tyler would miss so I could skate with a tie.
I won’t bore you with details, the proof is below. I’m actually more concerned with how you say – or write – a shutout in H-O-R-S-E. Like, you can win “H-O-R-S-E” to “H-O,” or lose, “He beat me, but I had him on ‘S’.”
A shutout, though?
Did Tyler beat me H-O-R-S-E to zero? H-O-R-S-E to blank? H-O-R-S-E to dash?
I thought I had him a letter twice. But his responses on my left-footed extra point and field goal from just inside the front corner of the right goal line were more impressive than my raises themselves.
Then, I made the mistake of pushing back to 50-plus. Already up a letter, Tyler hit from 55 yards on the left hash mark. With Josh Vallejos, Mo and Allieu Seisay, and Scott Williams, among others looking on – cheering for Tyler – my 55-yarder was 2-3 yards short.
Curtains.
The game lasted an hour and a half, but I was soundly shot down – like a dead duck.
Final score: H-O-R-S-E to nothing.
E-mail: pmurphy@digitalsports.com
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