A high school classmate contacted me on Facebook this past week asking what number I wore when I played football.

Kim was a cheerleader in high school, and at some point she borrowed one of my jerseys for an event or performance they were doing. She still has it.

I remember Kim because she was cuter than a box full of puppies on Christmas morning, but I only vaguely recall the loaning of my jersey. To be honest, I was probably in shock a cheerleader talked to me.

Quarterbacks, running backs and receivers talked to cheerleaders.

Big Uglies (offensive and defensive linemen like myself) talked mostly to other Big Uglies, and the conversation was usually about what we were going to eat after practice or how much we disliked quarterbacks, running backs and receivers.

The jersey in question is number 54, which means it was likely a practice jersey. My chosen number throughout my playing days was 75 in honor of Dallas Cowboys great Jethro Pugh, who should be in the NFL Hall of Fame — and I won’t even entertain arguments to the contrary.

I wore number 75 as a member of the freshman football team, but a senior had that number when I got to the varsity level the next season, so I was issued number 61.

I never got to wear that jersey in an actual game, but I did manage to make eight tackles in the Blue Devils’ second game of the 1981 season. And, I did it while sitting in the stands.

Allow me to explain.

The day before spring practice ended between my freshman and sophomore seasons, I tangled with the center and a guard and came up limping. My diagnosis was a pulled groin muscle, and since I wasn’t about to give up my starting nose guard position and no one questioned my diagnosis, I finished spring drills the next day and limped my way through the summer — never missing a workout.

Later that summer, near the end of a camp at Mars Hill College in North Carolina, standing, sitting or lying down had become almost unbearable. I sat out the final two days of camp, and when we returned to Tennessee I broke down and told my dad I needed to see a doctor.

Turns out the “pulled groin muscle” I had suffered during spring practice a few months earlier was actually my hip joint being knocked out of the socket. Running and lifting weights, plus the fact I grew a couple of inches over the summer, turned my hip into a mangled mess.

The doctor did surgery the following week, forcing the joint back into the socket and inserting a couple of large pins to hold things in place.

A year and a half later, that same doctor went back in, broke the leg, used a half dozen pins and a plate to hold that part together and then drove a large spike into the hip joint to keep the entire mess stable.

I eventually had a total hip replacement at the age of 36, and will likely need another one eventually.

My eight-tackle performance?

Prior to having the first surgery on my hip, the football team held “media day” so surrounding newspapers could get photos and content for upcoming preview sections. Those photos — and the rosters gathered that day — were published in the football program sold at home games and also used by the stadium announcer working in the press box.

With my season over, the number 61 jersey went to a player who joined the team late, and the new guy had himself one heck of a debut.

Unfortunately, for both of us, the name change wasn’t made on the roster so each time the new guy recorded a tackle the announcer called out my name to the crowd. If you’ve never had something you love taken away from you, it’s hard to explain how much that hurt.

It took them a few games to make the change to the program, but the new guy took it in stride.

I’ll let you know when I get over it.