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Recipe for Disaster One day Scott Kaplin, a rookie kicker, was assigned to cook the potatoes. The veteran kickers sent him to the kitchen (laundry room) to place the potatoes in the oven (dryer) for ten minutes. Scott didn't have a clue about cooking potatoes, but rookies knew better than to question veterans. After 15 minutes of keeping watch, John Kidd, the kicker, stuck his head inside a slant opening in the kitchen door and whispered, "What are you doing in there so long? It only takes ten minutes." "I can't get the door open," Scott replied. "Can't get what door open?" "Dryer." "What kind of football player can't open the door to a dryer?" John wondered aloud. John went in the laundry room to check out the problem and discovered Scott trying to open the door to the washing machine. The washing machines operated on pre-set cycles. Once the cycle started, the machine did not respond to Scott's feeble attempts to intercept its run, and the washer splashed and churned on to complete its mission. The room was like a sauna. Hot air from the dryers swamped the cramped space. Sweat trickled down Scott's face. His eyes, wide with fear and frustration, darted back and forth from the washer to the locker room. Scott's problem was simple: he couldn't differentiate a washing machine from a dryer, and so on that day the potatoes were drowned. Still Flying High There were spies watching spies in the NFL. Somehow the league discovered that the balls were being altered, but still the Bolt Recipe remained a mystery. This time, NFL headquarters instructed Wilson to send the balls, thoroughly prepared and conditioned, directly to the officiating crew at the hotel the day before the game. The referees tested the balls in their locker room, divided them in two sets of 12, and placed them in two Wilson bags. Before the game the officials went over how to get the balls on and off the field with the ball boys. The referees took one bag of balls out at the beginning of the game. The 12 remaining balls were secured in the officials' locker room. The league probably felt certain they had succeeded in putting a hitch in the special team's git-a-long, but determination outsmarted defeat. I hired Rocky Baham, the officials' locker room attendant, to become one of my undercover agents. He was a diehard Chargers fan, and somehow on his watch six of the officials' balls were switched with Bolt Recipe balls before half time. When the 12 remaining balls landed on the field before the second half, six were cooked potatoes. Three ball boys stationed on each side of the field knew to throw the doctored balls in for the kickers. Catch me if you can, the saying goes. After I retired from the Chargers, the NFL came up with a new system for controlling the kicking balls. The balls are specifically marked, "kicking balls." Ball boys handling kicking balls must wear a big red X on their uniforms. But even with the precautions, balls are still flying high. Perhaps it never was the balls, but the kickers who made the balls soar. Or maybe the kickers have cooked up another recipe? Possibly that story has yet to be told. Sid Brooks, a retired Air Force Senior Master Sergeant who served his last duties in the military in Vietnam and the Air Force Academy, was the equipment manager of the San Diego Chargers from 1973 to 2000. Known throughout the league as "Doc," he sat at the draft table for the Chargers during the NFL draft from 1990 to 2000. He was the first African-American NFL equipment manager and the only one with a locker room named for him. He came out of retirement to lead USC to two national championships. Co-author Gerri Brooks is Sid’s wife. She published her first novel, Love Potion, in 2001. Her second work of fiction, The Boy Who Whistled, A Love Story, is forthcoming.
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