Guest Blog Part 1 of 5: An Introduction to the Series of Stories and the Annual Season-Opening Cinder Test
By Connect-Bridgeport Staff on August 22, 2026
Editor's Note: The author, Tommy Brown, is a 1992 graduate of Bridgeport High School, a 1997 graduate of Slippery Rock University, who is currently living in Tampa, Fla. He is married to the former Kellie Sherman, and they have four kids - Breana (18), Bryce (17), Savannah (15), and Jake (14). This is one edition of a five-part series that should run every Saturday in the weeks ahead with a nostalgic look back on Indians football during Brown's time with the school and growing up in the city.
By Tommy Brown
Growing up in Bridgeport, West Virginia in the 1970s and 1980s was special. It was the kind of small town where people knew one another, families shared traditions, and the entire community took pride in its schools and its young people.
A place where you didn’t lock your front door, left keys in a Jeep 24/7/365 sitting on the street and where it felt like the whole town went to home games on Friday night. Maybe Bridgeport is still like this, but I have not lived there for over 30+ years so I cannot say one way or 
another. However, the lasting memories of my hometown and its football program swirl in my head and seem to percolate to the top of mind every time football season comes around.
another. However, the lasting memories of my hometown and its football program swirl in my head and seem to percolate to the top of mind every time football season comes around.
For many of us Bridgeport kids, becoming a member of the Indians football team was more than a childhood dream. It was a rite of passage. From the time we were young, we watched the older boys wear the red and white beneath the Friday-night lights. We knew their names, followed their games and imagined the day when we might wear that uniform ourselves.
Backyard football games became our first practices. We pretended to be the players we admired and dreamed about someday running onto the field as Bridgeport Indians. We wanted to experience the excitement we had seen from the stands and become part of something that already meant so much to our town.
But the greatest honor was simply being part of the team.
Not everyone became a star. Not everyone scored a touchdown or had his name appear in the newspaper. Some played nearly every down, while others contributed in practice, on special teams or from the sideline. But everyone had a role, and everyone mattered.
The moment you put on that Bridgeport uniform, you became part of a history that began long before you arrived and would continue long after you left. You shared that history with every player who had worn the red and white before you—and with every young boy who would someday follow.
Being a Bridgeport Indian meant carrying the expectations of toughness, discipline, teamwork and pride. It meant representing your family, your school and the small town that raised you. It also meant accepting the responsibility to honor the players who came before you and preserve the tradition for the next generation.
Years later, the scores fade and the details of individual games become harder to remember. What remains is the pride of knowing that, for one brief and unforgettable time, you were part of the Bridgeport High School football team.
Every player who wore that uniform owns a piece of its history, shares in its legacy and carries the honor of having been a Bridgeport Indian.
That is what made it special then.
And that is what makes it special still.
The following are a few stories of being part of this history back in the 80’s. If you were part of those Indian Teams back in the 80s and probably 70s they should resonate. None of these stories include any ‘real’ games, but rather the things that we all had to go through to be part of those teams that were never written up in any newspaper articles. Those that were there will undoubtedly remember and hopefully enjoy some nostalgia. *These are based on memory and will undoubtedly have some factual discrepancies.
Part 1: The Cinder Test
The first event of the Bridgeport football season did not involve blocking, tackling or even a football.
It involved a whistle, a black cinder-rock track and 12 minutes.
The instructions were simple: start running when the whistle blew and don’t stop until the 12 minutes were over.
Twelve minutes doesn’t sound like much—until you are standing on a black cinder track in the evening of an August heater. And while 
some players trained all summer, others might have spent more time playing other sports, swimming at Maple Lake, fishing at Hinkle/Deegan Lake, working a summer job, hanging out at Two Beep or Hardee’s parking lot and just riding around town did not qualify as football conditioning.
some players trained all summer, others might have spent more time playing other sports, swimming at Maple Lake, fishing at Hinkle/Deegan Lake, working a summer job, hanging out at Two Beep or Hardee’s parking lot and just riding around town did not qualify as football conditioning.
Then the signature black whistle blew.
At first, everyone moved together. Dozens of cleats struck the cinder at once, creating an unforgettable sound—metal spikes crunching, scraping and pounding against loose rock.
The first few minutes felt manageable. Then the group began to stretch around the track. Legs tightened, lungs burned and the better-conditioned runners moved ahead. You heard less talking, joking and a lot more gasping for breath.
All the while, that black cinder track offered no help. Unlike today’s smooth, cushioned and springy surfaces, it was unpredictable. A few areas were packed decently while most every step encountered loose rock that shifted beneath every step.
There was little cushioning and no energy returned with your stride. Every landing traveled through your feet, ankles and shins. The track
gave back nothing except dust, stones and occasionally a little skin.
As the minutes passed, some players slowed to a walk.
That was when the likes of Coach Jamison, Coach Iaquinta and Coach Lanzy offered their own special brand of encouragement. And while their words were not always politically correct or kind by today’s standard, they were remarkably pointed and probably marked as reminders of some drills to come in pending two-a-days. On that black cinder track, there was nowhere to hide. Every trip around the track brought you past the coaches again.
And while that cinder surface may not have been good for our feet, ankles or shins, maybe it made us tougher. It forced us to adjust to bad footing, accept discomfort and keep moving when nothing about the experience felt comfortable.
Maybe we were lucky to have the opportunity to learn that the conditions would not always be perfect—and nobody was going to make them perfect for us.
When the final whistle sounded, players slowed down, bent over with hands on their knees and tried to catch their breath. Coach Jamison and his staff had learned something about every player on that track. More importantly, every player had learned something about himself.
Forty, fifty years later, we most likely have no idea how many laps we completed during that first day of Football.
We probably remember the heat, the burning lungs, the not-so-kind words of encouragement and the feeling that the final whistle might never come.
One thing is for sure, everyone remembers from that first test of a Bridgeport Indian Football season back in the 70’s and 80’s is the sound that black cinder track made during that 12 minutes.
.jpg)
