Cam Little and the Day the Goalposts Wandered Off to Join the Circus
It began, as most perfectly unreasonable days do, with a weather forecast that predicted “a 78% chance of philosophical confusion.” Cam Little—placekicker extraordinaire, holder of the highest field goal percentage in Arkansas history, and accidental collector of left shoes—did not notice. He was too busy buttering a football.
You see, Cam had read somewhere (or maybe dreamed it during an off-season nap) that greasing a football could make it fly farther, much like a penguin on a slip-n-slide. Unfortunately, the butter attracted a flock of opportunistic seagulls who had mistaken the football for an unusually aerodynamic croissant.
“Gentlemen,” Cam addressed the birds gravely, “that’s for LSU, not you.”
Cam had always been a little different. Not just because he could kick a 56-yard field goal with the casual boredom of a man checking his mail, but because his kicks often caused strange phenomena. Once, after a 51-yarder against Mississippi State, the ball entered low orbit and startled an astronaut. Another time, his game-winner against LSU caused every vending machine in Baton Rouge to dispense nothing but Funyuns for three days.
It all went back to his upbringing in Moore, Oklahoma. His parents, Ronda and Todd, had insisted on two things:
Always say “please” and “thank you” to referees, even if they’re wrong.
Practice your aim by kicking pineapples into your neighbor’s swimming pool.
By the time Cam arrived at Southmoore High School, he was already ranked as the No. 1 kicking prospect by 247Sports, though they did note in fine print: “Possibly magical, possibly cursed.” He also dabbled in punting, a position he described as “kicking, but with extra existential doubt.”
At Arkansas, the oddities only multiplied. His kicks were so accurate, the ball once ricocheted off three goalposts and still counted. He finished his career without missing an extra point, though he did once accidentally kick an extra point in the middle of biology class, which caused both applause and detention.
His donation program—money for every made kick—began normally, until the Down Syndrome Connection of Northwest Arkansas started receiving checks written in denominations of “five dollars and one metaphysical question.” This drew the attention of Good Morning America, which sent a bewildered correspondent who spent the entire interview asking why Cam was holding a live chicken.
Then came the day the goalposts left. It was during an NFL preseason warmup. Cam lined up, took three steps back, and as his cleat struck the ball, both goalposts groaned, uprooted themselves, and waddled toward the parking lot. “We’ve had enough of this,” they announced in unison. “We’re joining the circus. They need tall, golden acrobats.”
The game had to be relocated to a nearby park, where Cam made a 72-yard field goal through two lampposts and a particularly judgmental squirrel. Scouts were impressed. Mel Kiper Jr. called him “the top kicking prospect,” though he did add, “He might be a wizard. I can’t prove it, but I feel it in my elbows.”
In the East-West Shrine Bowl, Cam’s 48-yarder curved midair to avoid a hot dog vendor and still went in, earning him a polite standing ovation from a man who claimed to be the ghost of a 1920s tight end. By the end of the game, it was clear—Cam wasn’t just a kicker. He was an interdimensional architect of points, a craftsman of chaos, and possibly the only NFL player who could kick a ball so high it stopped briefly to ponder the meaning of life.
Some say the Jacksonville Jaguars signed him for his leg. Others say it was for his ability to turn fourth downs into performance art. Whatever the truth, fans will never forget the moment he promised in his first press conference: “I’ll make every kick… unless the goalposts leave again. Then I’m going with them.”
