It had been some time since I last participated in the classic Saturday afternoon game of touch football. You remember the game: two sides of youngsters looking to take some cheap shots against the Ray Muhlenbacks of the world, those people who irritate every fiber of your frame just by breathing.
Well, years later I've found the angst gone but the competitive thrill still coursing through my age-clogged veins.
With my demand of being all-time quarterback met, I figured what could go wrong? All I would do is throw the ball against a bunch of no-rushing adolescents who all have visions of being the next Chad Johnson. Life would be easy. My first three receptions were perfect strikes. In fact IF Oak Tree, his cousin Pine and their buddy, Telephone Pole had arms all three would have been caught and we'd be up by three TDs. Alas, poor Yorick, my inability to throw to a human receiver relegated me to a life as a receiver. The task wasn't difficult. Everyone knows the covert go-long route. So I did. Time after time after time.
Everyone must have been covered or disintegrated by some nuclear blast because the new, young and much more accurate all-time quarterback actually through me the ball. With velcro-like skill I snabbed the ball out of the air and headed for glory. One step later, two-hands touched/shoved/stabbed/pulverized/crushed my aging frame.
As I was falling to the ground I already felt the searing pain of ligaments and tendons twisting in ways they shouldn't. As I was falling I was already in pain. As I was falling I realized this game is not for the middle aged. As I was falling I realized how pathetic I really am. All these epiphanies and more occurred and I still had not crashed into Mr. Earth.
The inevitable occurred and I was convinced my touch football days as well as breathing were over. Somehow, air seeped back into my lungs long enough for me to whimper, "Time-out. The play is being reviewed." I stumbled to the steps and remained contemplating my feebleness.
Well, years later I've found the angst gone but the competitive thrill still coursing through my age-clogged veins.
With my demand of being all-time quarterback met, I figured what could go wrong? All I would do is throw the ball against a bunch of no-rushing adolescents who all have visions of being the next Chad Johnson. Life would be easy. My first three receptions were perfect strikes. In fact IF Oak Tree, his cousin Pine and their buddy, Telephone Pole had arms all three would have been caught and we'd be up by three TDs. Alas, poor Yorick, my inability to throw to a human receiver relegated me to a life as a receiver. The task wasn't difficult. Everyone knows the covert go-long route. So I did. Time after time after time.
Everyone must have been covered or disintegrated by some nuclear blast because the new, young and much more accurate all-time quarterback actually through me the ball. With velcro-like skill I snabbed the ball out of the air and headed for glory. One step later, two-hands touched/shoved/stabbed/pulverized/crushed my aging frame.
As I was falling to the ground I already felt the searing pain of ligaments and tendons twisting in ways they shouldn't. As I was falling I was already in pain. As I was falling I realized this game is not for the middle aged. As I was falling I realized how pathetic I really am. All these epiphanies and more occurred and I still had not crashed into Mr. Earth.
The inevitable occurred and I was convinced my touch football days as well as breathing were over. Somehow, air seeped back into my lungs long enough for me to whimper, "Time-out. The play is being reviewed." I stumbled to the steps and remained contemplating my feebleness.
Touch football is how I remembered it.
Unfortunately, I''m not.
3 comments:
Alas, poor Brady! I knew him. Wait! He still alive and throwing a plethora of touchdowns or TD's as I like to say. You on the other hand should stay in the classroom and off the fields.
Hank Williams Jr. is probably best known for singing the Monday Night Football theme. In this situation I think of the line in a classic song of his, "There's a tear in my beer, cuz I'm crying for you dear." Well dear, I am not crying for you, more like laughing hysterically.
"Touch football is how I remembered it.
Unfortunately, I''m not."
Haha...very nice touch to close this great anecdote off.
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