Hope springs eternal in the rituals of youth football

This was an utterly perfect 74 degrees on a spring’s first afternoon on Pomona College’s merry Merritt Field, a day that could make one fall in love with Southern California all over again, and over the jasmine and the freshly mown grass floating lazily through the fluttering air.

This was just like any other parents and caretakers who came to bring out their sons for football practice camp in the Claremont High School. My boy, a 14-year-old rising freshman, had been eager for this seeing how he had been preparing for it for weeks. This is a typical quality with kids, where you find they transfer the feeling of the other person within, for instance His excitement had become mine.

It wasn’t always so. Concussions and worse were on my mind six months ago when he exphaled and said, ‘So I think I want to skate for CHS soph/frosh team’. I managed to disguise my disappointment, although, I’m not sure it was concealed well enough My legs chose that moment to drink tea so that now the day was indeed here. He toted his new helmet, shoulder pads, and jersey out to the field and greeted his pals who many begin playing football with in kindergarten. It also appeared that he did not experience nervousness, though I did not observe signs of anxiety from him.

This marked one of the most masculinely charged activities in every sense that he had ever had a hand in. But then I considered and took one more chance and said a mere goodbye hug and ‘I love you’ and to his credit, he didn’t skip a beat. I left and told him, “Don’t trip, ” not knowing that it is considered an impolite thing to tell a deaf person while waving my hand in front of him. He smiled just half inmockery, as I thought the matter deserved .

I swept the sea of children with backpacks from Claremont High school and other institutions observing young people apparently having a good time, cracking jokes. At the too good to be true sun of a few more hours later I was almost glad I was just a spectator to this American ritual of passage. My boy was laughing, looked much happier, definitely the best I’ve seen him in the last several days.

They will be ok, I told myself. He is aware that when he gets out of bounds or gets fatigue, he has to let the coaches know that he is thirsty or needs to have some water. Fortunately, he is quite muscular; 6 feet 1 inch tall, over the 200 pounds mark and aspiring to be an offensive lineman; it sounds to me, as a novice in these football affiliations, like he will not be very exposed to what must be the most dangerous of situations: being tackled from behind and when one is the most vulnerable, with a lineman bearing down on him. This is my hope, though it may be an irrational hope.

Of course, it makes sense that parents should have concerns that their children are playing football; it is flawed by its nature. Yes, pads and helmet, and yes, it must be true that most all kids aren’t out to kill or maim, and yet, this is my son here, my sensitive little guy that I got to know so well. It’s like my mom said to me when I was his age: “For myself it doesn’t really matter; it is the other chap whom I am concerned about. ”

I thought that the months of stress caused by thinking of   head injury, broken limbs, and shredded ACL that accompanied the launch of high school football would worsen. But, it was not so. Some of these indicators include; In some ways, a look he had on his face of ‘I am doing something grown up’ infected me with a version of his obvious joy.

I knew that feeling. This brought a lots of memories, just thinking about the time when I studies in Glendora American Little League, Pony, and Colt till high school began. But then I have considered my peers that I have met there, few of who I till this age of 60 am still in contact with. Now my son was part of that continuum that seemed to blend traditional thinking and unorthodox behavior. And please, it’s a lot to ask, but football could maybe do something for him, that’s why I made that wish.

At the end of the day and while driving home after a meeting with Pomona College, my eyes filled with tears. It was another thing to feel the ocean of emotion rise within me- it was a beautiful experience. Here, I was frowning and getting worried of his safety and my head and heart would tell me about the benefits I got out of it such as the enjoyment I derived from the sporting events and leaving all the negativity then give it a positive turn towards my son.

About my football problem

But as for when I started developing my fear of football, I can clearly recall the date. I was 14 and I was in the freshman in high school just like my son. I was now in my first year of teaching and had been lucky to be transferred to Goddard Jr. High School in Glendora this year in the fall of 1977. Once again, as my boy did, this was my first orientation to the ‘tackle’ football proper, if you wish to call it~that.

Full confession: Beneath all the excitement; I did not wake up one day wishing to become a football player wanting to show what I am capable of by proving my worth on the gridiron. It was desire though. Throughout my comically embarrassing middle school undergraduate years, I had observed how the cheerleaders always flock around the football players and I didn’t mind being a part of that good-looking combo.

My ability to play sports was solid enough but I could not help but wonder if I should have been trying out for football since my performance and clearly non-existing football talent reduced me to the role of the backup of a backup tight end on junior varsity. It was at home and was our first game for the new season. It was a relatively close match; however, I am not certain about the score and our opponent, but I remember sitting on the bench the whole time. It was not unexpected.

Although our next match we played was not less interesting than the previous ones, it was more vividly unforgettable.

We were away, against Sandburg, or “Sandbox,” as we called the crosstown rival team in a boastful manner that sound equally sarcastic. I reveled in the aggressive and masculo language as we dressed, which pretending to be a regular participant in the activity. As we were assembling our stuff and preparing to rush to the other group of cheerleaders calling us in, there were 40-45 boys, and all of us trying to inflate to look as masculine as possible, and get on the bus.

The coaches gave a brief pre-game speech to us as we got to the Sandburg parking lot and then proceeded to guide our little voices to shout a “beat Sandburg” 1-2-3-go. The>#212334< As we sailed our hummers and little bodies off the bus, with helmets on,ready to go to battle, we looked like a group of 5-foot nothing almost malnourished wanna-be football her

That’s when I realized I had made a horrible, possibly life-altering mistake: It was still early and I had a risk of forgetting something like my helmet in the locker room back home.

The coaches then looked at me with rather quizzical and most certainly rather nauseated expressions. “You … what? Well, line up anyway. ” And the next two hours and fifteen minutes were dedicated to the journey of adolescent embarrassment. Such mumbo jumbo raised laugh from every one on the team and probably some spectators as well. As I stepped into the fourth quarter, I was halfway through the process of shaking off the loss. And that is precisely when the head coach, who did not have any idea about the situation, called for me to get into the game. How? I thought. Does he still recall that I am the foolish man who lost his helmet and left it on the wagon? None of the involved actors had time to discuss matters. I remember he said that I should sit the starting tight end’s helmet.

They both stared at him, and then Kent said, “And his mouth guard,” referring to the last item retrieved from the car.

His mouth guard?

Fair to say that I’m a real germaphobe; however, I continue the act and clang the teammate’s helmet to me, and with equal relish, take his saliva-drenched mouth guard, and charge onto the field for my football’s beginning.

I do not know what ensued next but that could just have been the prolonged and extensive focus in a fellow teammate’s spitting that landed on my face. It was gross. But I thrived, literally, and life continued in pursuit of Life, Liberty, and Happiness in America.

I chuffed out the year but unless I was ignorant of it my football playing days were a one season kinda deal. Shocking, I know.

This incident of awful soccer has reduced to a regaling family anecdote, or a story that I remember is resilient against me being embarrassed of. It is now presumably either a career highlight or, at the very best, a very solid, if not quite high-status, comedy schtick.

Last week I posted a photo of my son on his first day of football camp and one of my oldest and dearest friends — a teammate from that 1977 Goddard JV squad of lore — commented thusly: You could start by asking him to take his helmet with him on the bus for away games, when you have the Goddard Titans next!