Welcome to the first installment of Campyblog, where I get to pour out the random nonsense that’s rattling around in my head. And speaking of head-rattling, let’s talk football, the $100 billion dollar spectacle of violence that keeps us glued to flatscreens for hours on end.
Serving as the Great Distraction from all our worldly cares, these days the NFL is practically a branch of the government. It’s definitely an engine of commerce, with ads for beer, trucks and pizza on constant rotation. Yet while quarterbacks and other so-called “skilled” players rack up fantasy points, the primal essence of the game remains unchanged: you must be willing to smash into other human beings at full speed.
Which is why I love it and had to play it. Nothing else in life compares to strapping on a helmet and pads and launching yourself like a missile. Even now as I walk around on a titanium hip and knee, it almost seems worth it.
As a nose tackle on defense, I lined up directly opposite the center—an American version of two sumo wrestlers who mean business. I modeled my game and girth after Ernie Holmes, the Steel Curtain lineman who shaved his scalp into an arrowhead point and once engaged in a shootout with police helicopters. That never ends well.
To meet the demands of my position, I bulked up listening to ZZ Top 8-track tapes in the garage while benching weights well into the night. And because I could fight through double-teaming guards and stuff the A-gap with some regularity, a few colleges began to take notice.
It was halftime at the Columbia game, and as we trudged into the locker room two touchdowns behind, every one of us knew the coach of the Penn Quakers was about to let us have it. He started out with a veteran move: glaring at each player in silent rage.
Then he erupted, kicking over garbage cans and questioning our manhood in no uncertain terms. The same choir-boy face that convinced my mother ever so earnestly that her son would be in the best of hands, was now spewing a torrent of paint-peeling profanity that would make a truck driver wince.
While his tirade wore on, and his vocal cords wore out, I bit down on the inside of my cheeks so I wouldn’t burst out laughing. Strangely enough, his tongue-lashing did the trick, and we tore into the Lions in the second half like men possessed, going on to win by double-digits.
It was the last game I ever suited up for, and while I had some fleeting moments of gridiron glory—tackling a Navy ball carrier for a loss at Franklin Field stands out—on that particular Saturday I didn’t get in for a single play.
On the bus ride home, I decided right then and there to cut short my nascent football career. With little regret, I seamlessly transitioned from participant to spectator, heeding the sage advice of W.C. Fields, who once said, “If at first you don’t succeed, try again. Then quit. There’s no sense being a damn fool about it.”
