A football league of their own
By JAMES FUSSELL
The Kansas City Star
Posted on Sun, May. 11, 2003 - Star Magazine

Sara Combs remembers how hard they used to try to hurt her. Smack in the mouth. Dig in the ribs.

You wanna cry, little girl? You gonna run away?

It was hard for the boys of Barstow, Calif., to accept a 5-foot-4-inch girl on their high school football team. But there she was, playing with the varsity.

Now living in Grain Valley in Jackson County, the 31-year-old Combs is a rarity. She played four years of high school football. Now she's on a different team, the starting fullback for the Kansas City Krunch, a new semipro team in the 3-year-old National Women's Football League. The league has 30 teams made up of players, ranging from their teens to their 50s, who play not for pay but for the love of the game.

Many players have never played before, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Most asked to play on a team but were turned away. No girls allowed. So they played with their brothers, or in pickup games, or just dreamed that someday things might change.

Well, they have.

The Krunch have uniforms, pads, helmets, a scout team and a full coaching staff. A ticket to one of their games, played locally at J.C. Harmon High School in Kansas City, Kan., costs $12. The team plays in a division made up of new teams from Oklahoma City, Evansville, Ind., and St. Louis.

The league championship game is televised on ESPN2.

Like other players, Combs was thrilled when she discovered the Krunch. She couldn't wait to make friends and build memories. She couldn't wait to hit somebody. After all, some of her best memories came from playing for Barstow.

That wasn't easy.

"They didn't like the fact that a female was going to play on their team," she says. "So every time they had a chance to hurt me, they tried. They didn't want me there. But after about two months they knew I was going to stick it out, and it was like we were brothers."

Combs spent her freshman year as a second-string running back. Her grandparents were so proud of her they once drove 1,700 miles from Bloomington, Ind., to see her play.

During the game Combs wanted nothing more than to send them home with a victory. And in a finish worthy of Hollywood, that's exactly what her team did. As time was running out, Barstow won the game by 1 after blasting in for a 2-point conversion.

The player who carried the ball?

Sara Combs.

Her teammates went wild. Her grandparents ran onto the field and hugged her. It was the only game her grandfather would ever see. He died two weeks later.

After the game, in a show of sportsmanship, a player from the other team slapped her on the shoulder pad and said, "Good job, guy."

That's when Combs pulled off her shoulder pads to reveal a surprise.

"Oh my gosh," the player gasped. "You're a girl!"

An eclectic mix

Krunch players get that a lot.

After all, ask anybody. Women don't play football. Not really.

That's the way it's been since they started keeping score. Basketball, sure. Softball, you betcha. But football -- real football -- that's different.

Football's a man's game -- rough, dirty, violent, dangerous.

Tear a tendon. Break a finger.

Women don't play real football.

Do they?

They do now. Just ask Kim Kastilahn, the Krunch's 32-year-old starting quarterback. A good athlete, she played virtually everything else -- soccer, softball, volleyball, basketball. Then some of her friends urged her to try playing football for the Krunch.

So she did.

"My family was like `What are you doing?'. I said, `I'm playing football.' They said, `It's just touch football, right?' I said, `No, it's NFL-rules, tackle, full-contact football.' They're like, `OK, are you sure you want to do this? You're going to get killed!"'

Even Scott James, the Krunch's vice president of operations, was dubious when he first heard about women's semipro football.

"I laughed about it," he says. "Hey, I'm a guy. I mean, you know, no way."

Then he started watching them. He saw the desire to work, listen, sweat and struggle. He saw them hit. He saw excellent athletes. And little by little, he saw them improve.

"It just floored me," he says. "I'm not laughing anymore. I mean, this is serious. This is real serious."

The players, coaches and team executives do not get paid, but for many it's the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.

Missy Larrick-Caskey, a 31-year-old defensive end from Leawood, remembers when she was bitten by the football bug at age 9. It was during the 1981 Super Bowl between the Philadelphia Eagles and the Oakland Raiders.

"I wanted to run the ball and score touchdowns," she says. "I remember approaching my parents saying, `Can I play football?' And of course my dad was like, `I don't think so."'

She never even got a football for her birthday. But in neighborhood games she would run the ball, and the boys couldn't catch her.

Finally she's able to play football -- for real.

The Krunch is owned by Cheryl Fields of Overland Park. Fields is a part-time instructor at Johnson County Community College and the former manager and special investigator for the Kansas Human Rights Commission.

The 30-something single woman has always loved football, and she wanted to own her own business. So last November, when the opportunity presented itself, she put off plans to buy a new car and bought the team instead (for between $40,000 and $65,000).

Her players are glad she did.

They love to play

In a way the Krunch is a dream team. Not because of its overwhelming talent, but just because it exists. Women now have a real team of their own.

The team is an eclectic mix of talent, desire and rampant inexperience. Some players are young and fast. One averaged 32 points per game playing professional basketball in Taiwan. Others are mothers in their 40s, playing more on passion than ability.

Whatever. It's football. And it's all they could ever want.

Well, there is one more thing they want.

More players.

"We don't have a very deep bench," says Leisha Brown, the team's front-end director. "We need offensive line, wide receivers, everything."

Everything but a mascot. They have one of those. His name's Krunchie, a tan bear in a white team T-shirt and floppy red shoes. Inside the costume you'll find Dwayne Tate, 20, from Peculiar in Cass County.

"I just run around and act stupid," he says. "My friends say I'm pretty good at that anyway, so I figured why not do it publicly?"

But can women really play football, Dwayne?

Absolutely, he says.

"There's always been girls I've been afraid of in my high school," he says. "They're big. They bench three times my body weight. Those are the girls you stay away from. Those are the kind of girls we have out here."

Think women football players aren't tough or intimidating? Meet defensive tackle Tyrha "Can't Beat 'em" Cheatem, a 25-year-old insurance administrator from Kansas City. She's 5-fee-10, weighs 255 pounds, has a scowl on her face and a cast on her wrist that she can use as a club, and she says she can't wait to prove people wrong.

"Putting somebody on the ground, it's just a rush," she says. "You know how you've had a bad day and somebody just gets on your nerves and you want to hit 'im? You know you can come out here and put 'im on the ground."

Whatever their reasons, these women love to play -- even the ones who can't. Take cornerback Tracey Hayes, 39 of Independence. She broke a finger.

Destined for surgery, she was still at practice, in full uniform, yelling encouragement from the sidelines.

Hayes is sure the NWFL will grow.

"That's the way it should be," she says. "If it's a good game, it's a good game. It doesn't matter who's playing it."

Head coach Courtney Porter, 27, is dedicated to making it a good game. A gifted athlete, he brings a wealth of gridiron experience. He was an All-Conference tailback and safety at Hazelwood East High School in St. Louis and a three-year track All-American in 400 meters. He played safety and corner at the University of Missouri-Rolla and started all four years. He's even coached in college and played and coached in the Arena Football League.

Today he works full time for Sprint as a system engineer. His "volunteer" job with the Krunch adds 13 hours more a week.

Krunch time

At practice, players don shoulder pads, red jerseys, black cleats and concrete-gray helmets and race across the field at Rosedale Park in Kansas City, Kan., chased by a cool breeze. Under a crescent moon, they practice on a baseball field ringed with lights as the sun goes down on a warm spring evening.

They use a youth-sized football, perfect for smaller hands. With their helmets on, you can't tell them from a high school team. The only thing that gives them away: a long ponytail tied with a pink scrunchy that spills out of a player's helmet.

They fan out, stretch and run drills as a few coaches talk in the middle of the field. On one side of a chain-link fence, six of the players' children scream and kick a ball together as their mothers block, scream and throw each other to the ground on the other side.

The Krunch played their first game April 12 at Gateway Technical High in St. Louis against the St. Louis Slam. Official attendance: 900.

In the locker room before the game, you can almost hear their hearts beating as they pull on shoulder pads and yell.

Go time. Raw nerves. Eye black. Players hug and hit each other on the back and flash can-you-believe-this smiles as if to say, "I've been dreaming of this since I was 7."

One player rams into a wall with her shoulder pads.

"I'm gonna hurt somebody today!" she screams.

"You ready to rip it up?" says another.

"Ladies, take a knee," coach Porter says. "This is what it all comes down to. Trust in your teammates. Trust in your coaches. You'll win on faith and execution, on blocking and tackling...OK, let's get a prayer."

They hold hands and bow their heads.

And then...

"AMEN!" they scream.

As they walk toward the field, past boxes of oranges and bananas and medical supplies, cleats crunch on the concrete floor. Across a parking lot, in their Halloween black-and-orange jerseys, their opponents huddle.

As the sun goes down, the Krunch make a circle around Porter, clapping and shouting.

"What time is it?" someone yells.

"KRUNCH TIME!"

What time is it?

"KRUNCH TIME!"

For Grandma

All the players wanted to win. But perhaps no one wanted it as much as Combs.

And her grandmother. Grandma had already made hotel reservations in St. Louis, hoping to see a repeat of that game 15 years earlier, when Sara's score had won her high school game.

It wasn't to be. Two weeks before the game, Sara's grandma died.

Before the game, Combs dedicates the game to her. She tells her teammates.

Game time.

The Slam return a squibbed kickoff to their 33, and immediately things begin going sour for the Krunch. A penalty moves the ball to midfield, and the Slam take advantage. A sweep to right gains 9, and a quick opener gets the first down.

A long run takes it to the Krunch 24.

"Come on D! Push em back!"

It doesn't happen.

On the next play, the Slam's quarterback lofts a pass down the right sideline for a streaking receiver.

Touchdown.

After a missed extra point, the Slam leads 6-0.

Second quarter, the score remains the same. When players leave the field and remove their helmets, steam rises from their heads. Most are deeply into the game. But not everyone.

"Come on defense, move 'em back!" screams a Krunch player from the sidelines.

"Uh, that's -- the offense," another player says gently.

"Oh, where have I been?" the first player says, clearly embarrassed.

But the offense goes nowhere, and soon enough the Krunch are back on defense.

"We Will Rock You" by Queen plays over the tinny loudspeaker. The crowd does the wave. And then -- a fumble by the Slam. The ball tumbles free, and the crowd holds its breath. It's scooped up by fleet-footed Krunch linebacker Andrea O'Neal. The crowd yells as O'Neal outraces everyone to the end zone to tie the score.

The extra point is no good.

Halftime: Krunch 6, Slam 6.

The rest of the game settles into a frustrating defensive struggle. The few drives that threaten end with interceptions, fumbles or turnovers on downs. Near the end of the game Krunch tight end Stephanie Campbell cradles a pass in the back of the end zone for a touchdown. Players on the sideline whoop and holler, until -- the play is called back for a penalty.

More aggravating near misses at the goal line. Eventually time runs out as a desperation heave by the Krunch is intercepted.

Overtime.

More opportunities lost.

Frustration, and finally, a scramble to the Slam 5. The quarterback turns to hand it off. A withering block by 5-foot-4, 180-pound fullback Sara Combs opens a huge hole up the middle. She blasts into three defensive players, sending them tumbling back like dominoes as Cathie Stansberry, Lil' Texas to her teammates, scampers into the end zone. The Krunch sideline explodes with joy.

Ball game: Krunch 12, Slam 6.

As players raise their helmets in victory, assistant coach Ralph Scopo sprints through the celebrating players and grabs Combs and heaves her up in the air, shaking her with a wild, excited look on his face.

"That's what I'm talking about!" he screams at her above the din. "That's how you block! That's how you (bleeping) block!"

Combs smiles and drinks it all in.

This was for you, grandma, she thinks. This was for you.

Postscript: The Krunch plays eight games in a season. The team beat the Evansville Express 20-0 in its second game, which was called at halftime because of lightning. The bad weather kept many people away. Officially the team sold tickets. The Krunch lost a 19-18 overtime decision to Oklahoma City Lightning in their third game. For more information on the team, call (913) 906-9496 or go to www.kansascitykrunch.com on the Web.

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To reach James A. Fussell, features reporter, call (816) 234-4460 or send e-mail to jfussell@kcstar.com. To reach Whitney Curtis, photographer, call (816) 516-9681 or send e-mail to wcurtis@kcstar.com.