Short #4: That Day

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I was on the carpet and engrossed in a cartoon, as as was my after school routine. I was likely half through an episode of Thunder Cats or Gummi Bears when my brother told me to go outside with him. He said he was going to teach me how to play football and I followed. The day was perfect for a new beginning. Autumn in the midlands of South Carolina is glorious and filled with long afternoon shadows and cool evenings. And, that day was a perfect fall day in Columbia. The low sun cast her shadows on the drive way as my brother began his lecture.

Over that afternoon, my brother taught me about offsides, the line of scrimmage, and several pass patterns. I inhaled every word he spoke and eagerly responded to his coaching. By the end of the day we played our very first game of two-hand touch. I was hooked. Part of it was the time I spent with my brother- I considered him my hero then- and part of it was the game. It’s elegant and ridiculous and altogether perfect.

Not long after that day, our front lawn became the neighborhood gridiron. One end zone was the concrete drive way while the other was a row of azalea bushes in the neighbor’s yard. We kicked extra points through two skinny pine trees and used the flower gardens as extra blockers. My brother, when he played with us, was all-time quarterback, meaning he played QB for both teams. He was bigger and faster than the rest of us and having him on one team was a substantial benefit to that team.

Retrospectively, I tip my cap to my 13 year-old brother and the amazing job he did that day. He taught a six-year old the basic rules of a complex game in an afternoon. It’s gift to be able to teach with such patience and forethought. I know what a safety is because he told be to tackle him in the end zone during that first game. He yelled at me as he stood behind the goal line. I had run down field to cut off his angle and didn’t know I could “tackle” him in the end zone. Two points to me.

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Abstract: The Calm And Focus of Football

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When I was a boy, just moments before every football game,

I’d slip into a panic.

My heart thumped,

And my mind crashed into a hoard of anxious thoughts.

Thankfully, when the whistle blew, and the first play was signaled-in from the sideline,

I always found my focus.

My breathing slowed,

and my thoughts melted into one single notion: the task at hand.

For the next sixty minutes, the game was all that existed in my world,

and all my energy went into it.

25 years year after I stopped playing the game I loved,

I’m still searching for the moments when nothing matters but the task at hand,

the game to replace the game.

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Abstract: That Silly Game

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When I was three years-old,

my brother dressed me in pads and a helmet,

stuck a brown ball under my arm,

and took pictures.

I few years later,

he taught me about the game,

of the brown ball

why I needed the pads and a helmet.

It was simple yet nuanced,

controlled but fun.

Football, the American bastard son of football.

A few years yet and I beheld my first college game,

in a stadium built for chickens,

amid tiny liquor bottles at our feet,

and chants of “bullshit” to the referees.

I was hooked and dreaming,

of glory and trophies,

and my name in lights,

just like a million other boys more talented than I.

By high school I saw my lights turned out,

after the last snap on that grass.

No fame for me.

I tried to love the game,

but it did not love me back,

a present I did not comprehend until now.

The spectacle of modern football,

of sponsored tweets,

woke virtue signaling,

poor college players,

and millionaire coaches,

isn’t my destiny.

The players are mere kids,

used and abused to the glory of their college masters,

at least the League pays them…for a while.

Then they are tossed out, body broken,

forced to find a new lover.

I would’ve married football if she would have me,

but now I’m glad she let me be.

There’s more to life than that silly game.

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