Pee Wee Football

When I was a little boy (about 8 or 9) I got a football for Christmas (it was autographed by my favorite player, too--Glynn Griffing--I bet you don't hear that name too often; he was an All-American QB at Ole Miss who played one year in the NFL as a back-up to Y. A. Tittle with the '63 N.Y. Giants) and I slept with it tucked under my arm, happy as a four-year-old with a stuffed bear. Of course, everyone in my family got a good laugh about it but I loved my new football and way back then football was my true love--the sport I dreamed of, at that time much more so than baseball or any other sport could possibly be.

It didn't take long before we wore that football out but it was followed by dozens of others. All throughout my teens and twenties, though, I fantasized about getting an official NFL football but they were pretty expensive and it seemed sort of ridiculous at my age to attach so much meaning to this particular ball so I always ended up with something a little less grandiose. Finally, though, when I was 30 years old, I just said "fuck it" and broke down and finally bought one!

It was great, too. I ran pass patterns and played catch almost every day that summer, even with school (yes, at the age of 30 I was still going to school) and softball four or five nights a week--plus basketball and four days (at least) lifting weights. As a child, and later when I actually played, I would drift off to sleep dreaming of touchdowns knowing I could reach out and snatch the ball out of the air, cuddling the leather with the tips of my fingers.

There is an old adage, and very true it is, to "be careful what you wish for" because within months of buying my new dream ball I broke the radial head of my elbow in two and my days of reaching out to grab a football, or reaching up to grab any ball, were not over, exactly, but changed. Drastically changed. I still have my beautiful ball but it is partially deflated sitting in my upstairs closet.

I bring all this up not so you'll boo hoo over my arm but just to let you know that I loved football as a child and dreamed of it, often--more often, perhaps, than I dreamed of baseball. But I don't find the same joy in football that I do in baseball. And it has nothing to do with my arm or my poor, unused, fantasy football.

It is just that, now, baseball's rhythms reflect more of who I am, where playing football, and later basketball, reflected more who I was as a younger man. I think it is important that we learn to recognize the rhythm of our body, even if that means accepting the passage of time and the inevitable erosion of our athletic skills. For me, the quiet intensity of baseball reflects my spirit much more so than the intense passion of that most Wagnerian of sports-- American football.

Even so, football is a great game. I loved it so much as a child and that incredible passion for the sport lingers with me still.

It just takes me a little longer to run down the field. That's all.