At the age of eight, I was a cherubic, burly one hundred pound sporter of crewcuts. At the time, I was called “Butch”. I wanted to play contact football with my peers but was denied due to my excessive size for your common eight-year old. So, I was placed with the sixth graders.
Even so, I was still ‘a load’ for your every day sixth grader.
These days there’s a statistic called YAC. Yards After Contact. The irrepressible running back Marshawn Lynch—when he played for the Seahawks—had two stellar YAC runs that actually registered on the University of Washington’s earthquake detector. (Not the run itself, but the stadium response by the Seattle fans known—collectively—as “The 12”, as in the 12th man.)
They didn’t keep those kinds of statistics when I played football, but, if they had, ALL of the yardage I gained came AFTER I was slammed into by peewee sixth graders. I used to stagger for ten yards carrying a small cluster of opponents. I didn’t have any moves. I didn’t have any speed. I just slammed into the opposing group of defenders with both hands wrapped about the football and kept my legs churning for as long as I could stand.
I loved the contact.
My best tackle of all time happened on a river trip. No football in miles. Decades removed from my days on the gridiron.
I was leading a high school trip and there was one kid who—literally—lorded it over his fellow students—most of whom were more comfortable drinking hot chocolate and practicing a band instrument or perfecting their moves on the latest video game. The obnoxious kid was the star lacrosse player and there wasn’t a day he didn’t remind you he played lacrosse.
Water fighting on river trips was popular in those days and the method for dousing your “enemy” was slinging a five gallon bucket of water when your raft got within slinging range. I’ll admit. I enjoyed water fights on the river and, if the day was hot, which it usually was in the high desert of the north central Oregon, sometimes getting splashed was welcomed.
Other times I loathed water fighting unless I was “winning” by out-maneuvering the other raft and staying dry. The problem water fighting against the star lacrosse player with several kids who shirked physical ed class was you were not going to “win”. My paddle crew got soaked. Over and over. Even after I warned the obnoxious kid we had enough, to cease and desist—because my crew was getting hypothermia—he persisted.
Diplomacy failed. Reasoning failed. Admonitions failed. He was having too much fun.
It was the end of the day and his raft and crew reached the beach before my raft. The camp beach had a large shallow eddy and, as my boat approached, our antagonist stood a few yards in the water, awaiting our arrival, with a plastic bucket in hand.
To his surprise, rather than bringing the raft to shore, I asked my crew to keep it in a holding pattern as I climbed out into the water. To his amusement, he watched as I strode methodically towards him through the waist deep pool. Kind of like a Terminator. To his astonishment—and before he realized my intentions—I’d gained speed and before he could turn and flee I did my best Dick Butkus imitation and put my forehead “right between the numbers” and drove him into water.
It had been decades since I’d felt such physical satisfaction.
As he lay on his back in the shallow beach water (he had still been wearing his lifejacket which—for me— cushioned the impact) with me straddling him, my crew—and even some of his crew!—came over and added insult to injury by thoroughly soaking him with buckets of water.
To his everlasting credit, he took it all in stride. He was obnoxious but he knew how to take it as well as give it. Mike Greenman—wherever you are—skoal!
My very last football play was on a Super Bowl Sunday.
The annual flag football game that took place in the morning before the Super Bowl. It was fun, but not smart. Cold—or wet—weather. Older bodies. Little warming up. Somehow I’d managed to live my entire life without breaking a single bone. I’d managed to play a decade or two of pick up Super Bowl Sunday games without significant injury.
Mind you, it was not without trying.
What I did manage to do, as a child and teen, was to get concussed more than a few times. Mostly playing organized or sandlot football, but, one time, it was when I was trying to imitate Pelé—in a Dick Butkus fashion—in a soccer game and drew a concussion with an ill-timed ‘header’.
I’d never really understood soccer.
This particular Sunday, I was playing quarterback on my last football play. I threw a wobbly, errant “dying duck” for an interception. The interceptor was rushing up the field as I was rushing down the field and, anticipating his shiftiness and in my zeal to grab his flag, I zigged as he zagged and we collided. I blacked out and must have extended my left arm to cushion the oncoming collision with the hard-packed field.
I broke my left wrist. In hindsight, I should be quite thankful I did not break them both. I understand there are some hurdles to ordinary life when you do such things. Hurdles most of us don’t want—to need—to clear. It was my last taste of physical contact in sports and it resulted in my only broken bone.
Years of vicious, gratifying tackles, years of hucking my body through crushing colonnades of whitewater, years of careful, cautious treading over treacherous terrain and I finally snap a wrist in a friendly game of flag football.
Such is life.
I wrote about football because I really wanted to tell the sports enthusiasts amongst you about the greatest high school football game I have ever heard of. Sadly, I did not witness it in RealTime. I finally came across a short video on ESPN. The game was a semifinal in Texas between two powerhouse football teams—Plano East and John Tyler. (John Tyler was the high school where the great running back Earl Campbell played. I DID see Earl Campbell stomp all over some other team in a high school playoff. Talk about men among boys…) In this highly touted playoff game, there were under four minutes left in the game and one team was ahead 41-17. . .
Watch the video.
Also, ever heard of trophic cascades?
Watch this brief video about wolves.
I know I should be talking about more pertinent subject matter with all that’s going on in the world but I wanted to send along something NOT pertinent in any meaningful way. And I really wanted to share that incredible football game. I—personally—don’t remember playing in a game THAT memorable. I wouldn’t blame any of those athletes about reliving that particular game.
Thanks for reading and sharing!
Cheers! - JLM