Guest Blog Part 2 of 5: Jamison Field Water Break
By Connect-Bridgeport Staff on August 29, 2026
We all remember the start of two-a-day practices at Bridgeport High School. These were designed to test more than your ability to play football.
They tested your body, your mind—and occasionally it felt like your will to live.
The first practice came early in the morning, although the August heat was already waiting for us. By the time the sun climbed above the field it was as if freshly cut grass stuck to every exposed piece of skin.
Between our 4 stations of 12 minute conditioning… the monkey rolls, sprints, calisthenics, gassers, jogging, hit-its, bear crawls, weight room and what appeared to be just made up ways to push us to the verge of throwing up, we pushed through so we could make the afternoon practice.
Once finished we went home, tried to eat, rested for what seemed like a few minutes and returned to do it all over again.
The afternoon practice was always worse.
The sun had spent the entire day heating the field, the equipment and everything around it. The air was thick, the legs were tired before practice even began, and the shoulder pads we had taken off only hours earlier were still damp.
Whether it was “bull in the ring,” Oklahoma Drill, the gauntlet, one-on-ones, we ran drills until our lungs burned. We hit until our shoulders hurt. We repeated plays until Coach was somewhat satisfied—or at least tired of watching us run them incorrectly.
Two-a-days were as much mental as physical. The coaches wanted to know who would keep going when he was tired, who would listen when he was frustrated and who could be counted on when everything became uncomfortable.
And everything was uncomfortable.
There were very few official pauses, but eventually and certainly not as often as what would be permitted today, came the two words every player had been waiting to hear:
“Water break!”
And in those words created immediate chaos.
As we all know, our water station was not a collection of individual bottles filled with ice water or flavored sports drinks. There were no trainers handing out cold towels. What we had was a water hose connected to what appeared to be a homemade small metal A frame that shot water out of the top.
It was crude, crowded and possibly held together by equal parts plumbing, determination and Bridgeport ingenuity.
But during two-a-days, it looked, felt and tasted like an oasis.
Depending on who the coaches let go get a water break at what time, determined the amount of ‘issues’ that would arise. There was no orderly line. There was no concern for seniority, position or personal space. There were only dozens of hot, exhausted football players trying to reach the same small supply of water.
Somebody always stayed too long hogging the water. Someone else just pushed someone else out of the way. Elbows appeared. Words were exchanged. Occasionally, a shoving match broke out because one player believed another had taken more than his fair share of warm water.
And while these water breaks carried water that had a metallic taste, as if it had traveled through every old pipe in Harrison County before finally reaching us. Early in practice, it might have been cool. By the afternoon, it was often somewhere between lukewarm and hot.
Grass clipping and sweat dripped from faces and arms. The air carried the combined smells of body odor, fresh-cut grass and moldy shoulder pads that had survived more Bridgeport football seasons than any of us.
None of it mattered.
When you were exhausted, overheated and covered in dust and grass, that metallic-tasting water was the best drink in the world.
You leaned over the contraption, drank as quickly as you could and tried to ignore the player pushing against your back. You splashed a little water on your face, took one more drink and hoped the coaches would give you a few extra seconds before calling everyone back.
The whistle blew, the water break ended and we returned to the field.
The relief never lasted long. Within minutes, our mouths were dry again, our pads felt heavier and the coaches were demanding the next drill at full speed.
But that was the purpose of two-a-days.
They stripped away comfort and excuses. They revealed who would continue when his body wanted to stop. They taught us that being tired did not mean we were finished and that being uncomfortable was not a reason to quit.
There were arguments at the trough, bruises on the field and moments when each of us wondered why we had chosen to be there.
The answer was always the same.
We wanted to be Bridgeport Indians.
We wanted to wear the red and white, stand beside our teammates and become part of the tradition we had watched from the stands as children. If earning that privilege required two practices a day, moldy shoulder pads and warm metallic water mixed with grass clippings, then that was the price we were willing to pay.
Looking back, the water trough was not much to see. But to the boys who crowded around it during those hot August practices, it was relief, conflict, laughter and survival—all gathered around one old spigot.
And somehow, every terrible-tasting drink made being part of those Bridgeport Indian teams feel even more worth it.
Editor's Note: File photo shows BHS all-time great Charlie Fest making a big play for the Indians. Like many, he experienced much of what Tommy Brown recalls in this special series.
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