Shockingly enough, this image struck fear into the heart of no one
With a lot of research, deep thought and a little nervousness, we finally relented and let Boy #1 play tackle football this year. I’m helping out as a coach and I have to say — the first two weeks have been a blast. The kids love it, safety is always paramount and it’s insanely organized.
A funny thing happened when the kids were finally cleared to start tackling each other last week: all my insecurities and memories of being small and slow in my own football career came rushing back. As they lined up for a tackling drill, I had flashes of me standing in line during the 1983 season in a helmet that was two sizes too big, and my eyes as big as beach balls just waiting to take my punishment.
When I played in 9th grade we usually had two lines going for a tackling drill; one for the ball carrier and one for the tackler. If I was 4th in line I would count to see who I would be going up against — praying like hell it wasn’t one of the crazy bastards that played football because it was a talent second only to bullying.
(Side note: the 80′s were prime time for bullies. The normal kids would take off their shirts for P.E. and you could see all the bruises from the “titty-twisters” that the bullies would dish out. They had long and distinguished careers back then — a real treat.)
Compared to today, the coaching we had growing up was terrible. Our coaches were better at saying, “you’ll get water when you earn it!!” instead of any kind of positive reinforcement. They loved nothing more than when you destroyed some guy. Especially if he wasn’t looking. “You ear-holed that SOB — nice work!!!!”
“Sloberknockers” were also another big deal. As in “knock the slobber out of him.”
But what put fear into me worse than anything else was when our coach would yell, “Gentlemen, we goin’ live!!!!!!!!!!!” That meant hitting/tackling drills. And the “live” portion meant that it was full-speed, so lock up the kids.
It didn’t help that I had one hell of a smart mouth and that someone was always gunning for me. I never passed up the opportunity to make a joke in class or let someone have it. You’d think I would have learned, but never did. Guys would skip places in line to be sized up with me — payback.
My crowning moment came when the coach would pick one poor son of a bitch to get on the 10 yard line with the ball and try to run 90 yards for a touchdown with the ENTIRE team chasing him down and trying to knock the shit out of him. On a cold day in October, he was picking out the ball carrier when I made the stupid decision to look the other way and make myself shorter behind the other guys.
“PLAYSTEAD!!!”
I swear, when I heard those words I froze. We had some mean, fast, crazy guys on our team, and that did not mesh well with my talents of being short with huge feet. I slowly walked out and coach threw me the ball and pointed at the ten the same way a cattle farmer points to the spot on the cow’s head where it meets its maker. He then riled up all 50 of the guys.
“He ain’t gonna make it to the end zone, is he?”
“NO COACH!”
You’re gonna get him after 20 yards, aren’t you?”
“YES COACH!”
And then it happened, the coach whipped around at me and screamed, “GO!!!!” with spit and humiliation flying everywhere.
I have never run faster in my entire life. Thank God no one took a picture of the look that must have been on my face. Sheer terror mixed with confusion and a dash of adrenaline.
I was shocked when I looked down and realized that I’d made it to the 50 yard line. The worst thing is that I could hear them gaining like a pack of deranged bulls. A stampede mixed with horrifying screams.
I hit the forty and really kicked into high gear. Then the 30, the 20 — they were getting really close so and I decided when I hit the 10 I would dive for the end zone. It never happened — at the 11 someone dove at me and grabbed my foot, sending me ass over tea kettle. And that wasn’t the bad part. It was the other 20 guys that piled on top, dying to get the credit.
It hurt.
And yes, when my son’s team lined up for those first tackling drills, every one of these moments came rushing back into my head. All at once.
The question that any normal person would ask is, “Why the hell would you keep playing a sport that would – at times, put the “fear of God into you?” Great question. Well, because it’s fun as hell, you’re part of a really close-knit group and it’s good for you to have a maniac in a windbreaker and shorts yelling at you about going “across the bow!!”
The worst thing is that no one ever told me that getting hit hurt a lot less if you hit them harder. It makes too much sense, but I didn’t figure it out until it was too late (even though I played through high school). It’s one of the first things I tell our kids. It’s coupled with the fact that if you don’t play “balls-out” at all times, there’s a better chance that you’ll get hurt too. Two great tips.
The best part? Now, I’m the maniac in a wind-breaker and shorts. Although I think I’m having more fun than they are.
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