Have you ever watched one of those sports films and been sucked into the thing? I was putting this desk together tonight,, failing at said task, and periodically I would glance up at the tv. I like to keep the tv on in whatever room I am in no matter where I am. The rumbly random picks and umbars combined with all the late night talk of promised pound shedding and no money down is a surrogate booty call for a person like me. Even on tour when you think I would need to dust the din off, I still opt for another showing of Road House. It makes a place like Grand Rapids seem, well, Grand. But I have lost my path. Oh yeah. I was using the crate and barrel provided allen wrench (thanks Al) and blowing it big time. The desk is wobbly like Bambi at birth, but I think with enough crap piled on it, the isometrics of the situation might actually precipitate a sturdy desk. As I said, tv was on and I kept looking up at it just to make sure I wasn’t a total loser, putting mcfurniture together on a hot Friday night. This movie about football was on. The one with Billy Bob Thornton. I like that guy. He seems like not so much an actor as a dude they put in outfits and film; that’s not to knock his ability, he just seems so natural in whatever role. I remember I found myself feeling bad for him in Bad Santa and he was more wretched than a pile of stepfathers.
I stopped scarring the pressed plywood long enough to get sucked into the “game.” I even teared up when the lovable, yet religious defensive guy gave the patented “its our time, yo,” speech. The game, like everything except taxes, reminded me of my time playing football. I am sure its at least an amusing story. Especially for a sport that I didn’t really like.
Around 4th grade, it was noted by the people in the house that I was rather tall and, judging by my ability to take the odd beating, I was semi-tough. The fat guy with the beard and corn in said beard, decided that I would join the team. I didn’t want to play. I protested. I disappeared for a couple of days. I came back. I was still playing. The best thing, I figured out years later, mostly by default, was that it was the first time someone bought me a pair of shoes. Ok they were cleats, and they were from the mission (where I met Smitty. That’s a later tale) and if I could smell I bet they were somewhere between crotch and vomit with some thrift store cheetle thrown in on top. So I was picked up from Mr. Porth’s farm and taken to the first practice. I wore these electric blue ‘70s gym shorts with red piping that rode so high in the crotch, if I had pubes it would have looked like Paul Stanley from Kiss trying to escape my balls. Its amusing to think about now. I also pulled my yellow striped white tube socks (I had 3 pairs) as close to my knee caps as possible, as if I were trying to make them into pants.
I also was wearing a t shirt. Don’t recall what it said on it or if it was blank, but I know it was a t shirt.
The other guys were all running around, which told me that I was in some shade, rather late. Hey, parents need smokes and beer. Besides, I was in no hurry to play football.
Getting out of the truck, I ran over to these two men, who looked like the guys I saw on tv on Sundays.
They both had on red baseball hats. One of them has to be the coach, I thought. So I walked over and met the coach. Coach Mattos. Oh, good, his shirt is labeled so I don’t have to guess which one is which. The other guy was shorter and chunky. His hair was greased underneath that hat. I found out later that he was Coach Thompson.
Coach Mattos was tall and had hands as big as ribeyes. Huge man. I swore his knees creaked when he walked.
He bellowed at me.
HI BIG MAN. YOU READY TO PLAY SOME BALL?
um, yeah i guess. no..yes sir
GREAT WHAT DO YOU WANT TO PLAY?
i don’t want to. my “dad” is making me.
ALL RIGHT. FALL IN AND FINISH THE LAPS WITH THE OTHER GUYS.
ok.
And off I went.
I had never run for fun before, well for a sport. I had run away. I had run home when it began raining, but never for an activity. I used the I had cancer card enough by then and my height didn’t make me look sickly. I noticed everyone on the team. There were about twenty or twenty five kids. Some of them I recognized from school. A few I had never seen. I tried to keep up running, to make up for being late but realized I should just maintain. So I kept along. In a matter of moments we were done.
Coach Mattos appeared in the middle of the field.
HIT A KNEE!
So we all ran over and circled around him.
I wish I could remember what was said, that it was some Knute Rockne meets the Wonder Years profound stuff. All I really remember all this time later was that jerseys cost 7 dollars and we should all study hard.
My first ridicule came at the end of practice. We basically ran around the field for an hour or so and jumped and jacked and rolled and fell til the darkness won.
By the lights of the beirutted snack bar and his prize el camino, Coach Thompson gave us our pads and helmets. I got my pads but none of the helmets would fit. One after one I tried.
THIS ONE.
Grunt. Pause.
nope. no sir.
THIS ONE?
Erg. Pause.
no. unh unh.
ALRIGHT. LEMME TAKE THE PADS OUT. BOY, YOUR HEAD IS HUGE! YOU BETTER BE SMART. YOUR HAID AINT GONNA BE A HAT RACK IS IT.
The othe kids giggles behind and around me. I turned red.
no. i make ok grades.
Push. Grunting. Squeak.
THERE IT KINDA FITS. IF YOU PLAY, I’LL GET YOU A HELMET FROM THE MIDDLE SCHOOL.
So there, my pumpkin head was already a punchline not even two hours into my sports career. ( I wore a helmet 1 and a half sizes larger than anyone, come to find out)
bye coach thompson. see you tomorrow.
The next day, I put the gear on about two hours earlier than needed and went in the yard to run into stuff. I hit trees, one of the “project junkers” in the yard (this is before pimp my ride) and I even practiced falling down the walkway to the doublewide. The sketchy helmet and grass stained pads worked. I was very excited.
Once again, late to practice. I got around this later when the coach would come and get me from work or school. I think he thought I was going to be a good player at some point. Maybe.
I had never met a man, except Mr. Porth, who had a real job AND clean hands. At pizza hut once, I noticed he kept his money in a clip! Wow.
So I get to practice and its time to use the pads. I hadn’t hit anyone. Ever. Not with all my body.
They paired us up. We were in two lines and the lines faced each other, as each pair squared up and hit one another. The coaches blew their whistles and made comments after your hit.
I was put with Ben Brazinski. He was this stocky kid who wanted to be a comedian. His idol was Mork. We had made fun of each other at some point one morning sometime ago. But he was nice. So I am there watching the stance we were to get into. I started to think about the act of hitting. And be a white trasher in the south, you learn about hitting and how to get hit. I can’t say that I knew how to hit. But I wanted to get a cool remark from Mattos or at least get some distance from the comment about my head.
I bent my legs, weight on the balls of my feet, butt back shoulders down and head up. One hand dropped to the ground, then the other fell in the same fashion. I grabbed at the graying turf, rubbing the dirt in my hands.
ON THE WHISTLE. DIG IN AND HIT YOUR MAN. LEGS PUMPIN’ STAY LOW.
I looked at ben. I was almost smiling. I had the ok to inflict my weight and inertia on someone. I could get back at those that I couldn’t get back at. Or those that I couldn’t fight fair with. Here I could pretend that the other guy was whomever had transgressed against me. Sounds puerile and base, but I never surmised that about the game. Not until we were told, ordered to hit the other guy.
Ben was smiling , sorta. He squinted his eyes, wiggles his lips at me and scooched his rear. I dug in, and lowered my torso closer to the ground. It now hurt to be such a spring, such a bundle of potential energy.
ONE TWO..bleeeaart!
And in that second, that pea rattling in the whistle, I saw what I needed to do, where I needed to be.
I pulled up about two inches, feeding the images in my head of things I hated, that hated me, that made me cry or made me grow up too soon. I scraped my arms up, with those feelings and baggage and barreled hard for ben. Adult voices megaphoned at us both. In a half of a hair of a second, I was through him and stapling his body to the ground, yelling something, pounding and kicking like we were going to fall out in china on the other end. I heard a huge wheeze and didn’t know until they took his helmet off and started icing his groin that I had “knocked the air out” of him. I rolled over and saw that he was down and not getting up. Wow. I did that. I got up, not smiling, straightened my wobbly helmet and trotted to the back of the opposing line for round two. I don’t think the coach said anything about that. It would be a few more practices before I got one of those fabled pats on the butt.
In a few minutes, ben was back up and we kept on practicing. After practice and even for the rest of the year, ben was different to me at school. I didn’t care, we weren’t friends. I barely talked to anyone at that school.
More football stories next time. Maybe. Did I mention that I hated football?
