I Was Born Just to Watch the Boys of Fall

It's hard to believe football season is upon us once again.

I am a great fan of the game, in part because I played it.

Sort of.

Our junior high football team was made up of boys from the seventh, eighth and ninth grades.

I never really intended on playing, but on the first day of seventh grade, virtually every boy in my class went out for the team. This left me no choice but to join them.

From what I recall, this level of participation was unprecedented, and it showed.

After the eighth and ninth graders were issued their uniforms, the coach tossed boxes of equipment in the middle of the locker room floor and let us seventh graders fend for ourselves.

While Reggie White didn’t go to my school, his pants somehow got there, and I somehow ended up with them.

And I’m talking about size he wore in the NFL.

I didn’t have to worry about my shins too much, because that's where my thigh pads hit me — leaving my ankles protected by my knee pads.

My helmet was a mismatch of colors where it had been painted multiple times, probably since the ‘60s.

The only one that looked worse was one of my classmates who stuck Charlie’s Angels stickers all over his.

Wait, I guess that actually made it look better. He must’ve thought no one could bear to hit Farrah.

The first day of practice, we all lined up to do exercises.

We did the usual sit-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks, etc.

Then I was introduced to this medieval sadistic ritual called leg lifts.

One of the captains would call out a series of numbers one to four.

The higher the number, the higher you lifted your legs in 6-inch increments.

After you finish reading today’s paper, hop on the ground, lie on your back, and see how long you can keep your feet 6 inches off the ground.

I’ll wait.

Sometimes we would do this drill where one player would put his helmeted head down at one end of a 6-foot 2-by-12 plank grab his face mask, and the other player would do the same thing at the opposite end.

When the coach blew the whistle, we would charge at each other as hard as we could, keeping our helmets on the board.

This drill didn’t have a name, because there weren’t words to describe it.

I’m pretty sure football teams don’t coach pad leverage this way anymore.

The day after the first day of practice, I could barely walk from sore muscles. Our hall had a section where we had to climb two steps. I remember approaching them wondering how I could ever climb them.

I made it through the entire season, however. The only injury I sustained was a stinger on my right elbow which made my ring finger and pinkie tingle for about 6 months.

I stepped on the field but once that season.

It was the last play of the last game.

I was either at offensive guard or tackle. I don’t recall for sure.

The defensive lineman across from me said, “I’m gonna kill you.”

That’s the night I hung up Reggie’s pants for good.