Walk It Off

broken ankle
Image by freeparking via Flickr

“Pain is weakness leaving the body” – Tom Sobal

In 1000 AD England, King Elthred was supreme ruler on earth. To villagers and peasants, life was a fragile gossamer strand that could be snapped by a sudden invisible hand as easily as one might brush aside a spider’s web.

Healers relied on sacred and profane remedies to exorcise the physical demons that brought plagues and misery. In darker times, giving in meant giving up. People learned early to chide and cajole the injured and infirmed ( gettest thou out of bed, you are fine !) as if to acknowledge the severity of their condition would make it a self fulfilling prophesy.

In the late 1500’s, an unusual illustrated journal maintained by an 11th century monk revealed much about life and death in the dark ages. In one protracted pictograph of medieval medicine, leaches were applied to the legs of individuals with circulatory and psychological ailments.  With their parasitic poultice in tow, the afflicted were expected to walk great distances – presumably to increase circulation – which in turn would swell the growth of the leach until it would literally burst off the patient’s skin.  This bloody explosion was said to mark the point at which the bad blood had been extracted, improving the odds for a speedy recovery.  It was theorized by one etymologist that this was the genesis of the Anglican stiff upper lip expression – “walk it off.”

Centuries later, I recall being beaned in the right leg during a high school scrimmage by Jim Gott, an all-county pitcher who threw laser fastballs in excess of 90 mph.  Gott went on to enjoy a decade long career in Major League Baseball with stints as a reliever for the Blue Jays, Giants and Dodgers. On this day, he all but fractured my femur with a low and tight slider that chose not to break.  I am reminded of the blinding flash of pain as well as the taste of red dirt on my tongue as I writhed in the chalk of the batters box. I distinctly recollect the unsympathetic cacophony of fathers and coaches who all yelled out precisely at the same moment, “walk it off, Turpin!”

As I got up limping on one leg, I shot an indignant leer through the chain-linked backstop. I saw distain on their ancient faces and could almost divine their prehistoric thoughts.  “that kid, what a milk toast. “ and “It’s just as well his father isn’t hear to see this.”

Injuries were common in the era of free-range kids. There were road rash bicycle accidents, sandlot football broken arms, Fourth of July firework burns, and new scout knife gashes. We knew emergency room nurses on a first name basis. Yet these ladies only saw a fraction of our maladies as with most families of our generation, we used the “O Squared” method to triage medical events.  The O squared rule simply stated that one must have been bleeding from at least two orifices to merit professional medical attention. This therapeutic best practice was not unique to our family.  It was an indispensable axiom for our entire neighborhood including the Del Santo family, a classically prolific, eleven-kid Italian Catholic family that lived directly diagonal to our back yard.

The Dels kitchen was a 24-hour MASH hospital. I can distinctly recall one of the Del Santo boys breaking his finger and attempting to get treatment from Mrs. Del, a saint of a mother who, while holding a screaming child, cooking bacon and eggs and dragging two other toddlers attached to her ankles, adroitly administered a field dressing with the detached calm of a battlefield corpsman.

In a treatment torn from the page of a survivalist field manual, Mrs. Del grabbed a long plastic Lego, scotch tape and set the finger.  Both patient and parent seemed content with the makeshift splint although, I was personally stunned that the stopgap remedy became permanent and was never replaced with the popular metal splint encased in white gauze and athletic tape.

In the days of  “man up” medicine, athletic coaches did not get sued for pushing athletes to the point of heat exhaustion or vomiting. Having survived the Army with a crusty Master Sergeant who was the only survivor of a platoon overrun in North Korea, my father considered pain an essential process in forging stronger character.  Through suffering, one could achieve a higher plane of consciousness where pain ultimately subsided.  (We now know this higher plateau to be known as shock.) However, in the days of ” tough it out” and shake it off”, no one iced a monkey bump the size of a golf ball, paid attention to the bruise on your left quad that resembled the continent of Australia or woke you up every hour after taking a shot to the head in football.

It was not uncommon to come into the house balling uncontrollably after you had just pounded a nail through your hand while building a primitive fort or plunged an ice pick into your thigh while removing grout from shower. Parents of the 60s would actually hit you to calm you – perhaps influenced by war movies where the tough officer slaps the hysterically wounded man. ” Get a hold of yourself, Bob. You still have your other leg.” Once slapped out of your self-pity, your parent would proceed to pour stinging rubbing alcohol on your gaping wound causing you to shriek and leap uncontrollably out of your chair.  Another therapeutic slap reduced you to a drooling, blubbering, shaking mass of blood stained clothes.

In days before the over prescription of antibiotics created superbugs and killer staph infections, a boil would not be considered life threatening but instead be lanced with a sterilized sewing needle and protected with a simple 3 inch Band-Aid.  A summer splinter was dug out with that same needle as you were screaming, “ no, I can walk with this in my foot, no!”

One would think with this tough love education that we would have grown into a society of practical homeopaths eschewing formal medicine for crazy glue, anti-bacterial ointment and a rubber belt to bite on. As we became parents, we changed from Darwinian fatalists into empathetic hyperactive helicopter parents.  Actually, the opposite occurred.  At every sniffle, sneeze or throaty cough, we rushed our first-borns to emergency clinics and to pediatricians begging for antibiotics because we could not stand the uncertainty of an illness.  We wanted instant resolution and it contributed to creating a healthcare system that was all too eager to accommodate our anxieties.

As we got older and realized our children were more or less indestructible objects, we became part of the cavalcade of “ walk it off “ parents.  After our son fell while swinging on his pull up bar, we chastised him and sent him to bed – despite his complaints that his hand was hurting.  Two days later, he was diagnosed with a broken bone in his hand (ok, so maybe it was four days later).  Our daughter took a bad spill while playing soccer – again there was whining about a sore shoulder and neck.  “ You’re fine,” we told her as she complained about being too sore to practice.  Three days later we were looking at the X-Ray that revealed the broken collarbone. Oops!

It is a cool autumn football night as I wander over to midweek practice fields that buzz under an eerie glow reminiscent of alien landing lights.  There is a symphony of yells, whistles, smacking helmets and tribal clapping followed by a singular outburst  “break!”

A padded adolescent warrior lies on the ground and is slow getting up.  As players take a knee in a sign of solidarity, a coach sympathetically touches the players shoulder pad and coaxes him to sit up. Across the turf field, a father paces uneasily. His large build and slight limp suggest a lifetime of contact athletics.  I am secretly critical as he is obviously barely restraining his need to run on to the field to hold his son. He moves closer to the sideline straining to see his player, attempting to ascertain the nature of his injury.  As a veteran “ tough it out” parent, I start towards him to reassure him that his progeny will be fine.  He can hold it in no longer. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he screams,  “Come on Jimmy, you’re fine.  Get back in there!”

I feel a sudden chill and for a moment, sense my father is right behind me, seated on wooden bleachers urging me to suck it up and get back in the game.  I turn, expecting to see him restlessly pacing, waiting for me to dust myself off and hustle down to first base.

There is no one there.  As I turn to return to my observation post, I stumble over an equipment bag tossed on the sidelines and hit my knee on the gurf field.  Dusting myself off and limping over to the fence, I glance up hoping no one has witnessed my gaffe.  In the shadows lurks another late 40’s father.  He is obviously an alumnus of the “suck it up academy”.

“Walk it off, dude” he says with a chuckle.

That Championship Season

That Championship Season

 

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

 

Henry V, William Shakespeare

 

There is a weathered show box in my den that hides inconspicuously behind uneven, dusty piles of rubber banded baseball card and old Sports Illustrated magazines.  The contents of this magical ark are talismans of my youth – awards, medals, merit badges and obscure honors bestowed for noble deeds and feats of athleticism and academic excellence. The artifacts have miraculously survived my teenaged years, college, first apartment, starter home, as well as moves to and from Europe.  Each time I pack and unpack the things that I choose to define my material world, I cannot help but open that one time capsule that vaults me back to a vulnerable and powerful time where the mythology of world and all its possibilities stretched before me like a great, dark wood. There is one particular object of enormous sentimental value that rests silently within this box – an odd felt patch that simply says 1973 Green Hornet Award – Champions 1973. It represents the one time in all my years of competitive sports that I played on a championship team. 

 

At 12, I had been part of an eleventh hour trade – the kind of transaction that is often borne out of the larceny of a parent coach who cannot help taking advantage of a more chaste opposing coach.  I was dealt to a new baseball team, (presumably for two pitchers and a kid still in his diapers), that had lost all but one game the prior season.  My new coach wanted to win badly but insisted on starting his child at pitcher and shortstop when in fact, his son was already exhibiting signs that he would rather be braiding the hair of his sister’s Barbies than throwing strikes.  We all understood in our own way that our coach was attempting to defy Mother Nature at our expense and she was paying us back cruelly with lopsided losses.  Son and father finally answered our prayers and quit the team after a spectacular confrontation in the dugout, possibly over shoes that did not match his belt. 

 

A white knight volunteer coach whose children had long since outgrown the confines of a 60-foot diamond rescued us.  He was tough – making us run laps and field ground balls off our chest.  He yelled. He used running as a cruel reprisal for the simplest infraction.  I hated him at first and complained bitterly to my father.  After my describing my tormentor, my father chuckled and said, “sounds like Bobby Knight.  I like him already.”

 

After all, I was a pacifist.  I wasn’t sure exactly what a pacifist was but it sounded like they never had to run and spent a lot of time in the Pacific ocean.  The fact is, if I had been born ten years earlier, I would have been one of those turtle necked peaceniks putting daisies into the barrels of National Guardsman guns at Kent State.  I was a heavy kid with a strong arm and big swing but a suburban soft constitution.  The coach figured me out as lazy but also pegged me correctly as competitive, people pleaser. At our next practice, he introduced the concept of the “Green Hornet”, an award for the player that exhibited the greatest hustle.  “Hustling” to me was walking very fast when everyone else was running.  The first evening, I pushed myself hard to win the award.  I was thrilled at my ability to avoid being dead last in our sprints. When the award was being presented, I stood up humbly ready to give my acceptance speech.  Instead, the award went to Charlie Meagher, a skinny second baseman who insisted on finishing every sprint in first place.  He couldn’t even hit and made at least two errors an inning.

 

For the first few weeks, I decided to be indifferent to winning the coveted Green Hornet – a stupid piece of forest green felt cut into an incomprehensible shape.  But I secretly wanted that award.  I needed to have it. I asked coach why I had not received the recognition.  He looked at me for a long time, choosing the right words.  “Because you only give the minimum, Mike.  I want 100% from you.” I felt like saying, “I am a kid. We don’t even do percentages until the 8th grade!” But I understood clearly what he was saying.  Over the next several weeks, I pushed myself and finally won one of those Green badges. That season, we transformed from the Bad News Bears to a bad neighborhood.  Teams dreaded playing us.  Some opposing parents resented our success and immediately started to talk about our coach. “He’s so intense!” ” He takes things too seriously.  He doesn’t get that this is youth sports.”

 

We saw it differently.  My coach was trying to teach us how to succeed.  He never denigrated a single kid. He treated us equally, yet individually administered his theology of competition based on our ability.  It was not about winning.  It was about giving it everything you had. In sports as in life, the man who wanted it more was the man who usually prevailed.  He never took a swing, threw a pitch or fielded a grounder in a single game.  It was all us.  The day we won the championship, everyone celebrated.  He made a point of sharing how every kid had his fingerprints on that trophy.  He told us that we would remember this game and this championship forever because he knew a championship is the harmonic convergence of many things – talent, opportunity, heart, preparation, will and character. I can remember each kid at each position, with eye black and caked red dust streaked with sweat.  Champions.

 

It was interesting for me this year to watch as both of my sons’ football teams won hard fought championships.  Each boy played his heart out.  Both played for tough and demanding coaches.  They responded by rising to the occasion and pushing themselves. They wanted a championship – bad.  They wanted to don that laurel that the number one man wears, the FCFL Champions jacket with their own name and number embroidered on the sleeve.  To wear a jacket like that is to prove you exist.  It is the red badge of courage, the uniform of the accomplished. The boys wanted to be part of a tribe that had achieved the very best.  Each boy spent over 95 hours on the practice field. I never heard a peep out of them.  One night, one of them threw up during a grueling practice.  He only expressed astonishment from the fact that one could actually exercise so hard that one could get sick. If it had been me, I would have been calling my attorney, if I had one. 

 

Both championship games were nail biters and will forever be remembered in the folklore of these young men as the 6-0 defensive win over Westport and the 19-12 Ice Bowl victory at Darien. When the gun sounded at the end of the game, the boys celebrated in a manner that only coaches and players know, the boy moving closer to manhood and the coach now a surrogate parent for life.

 

As our lives sweep into adulthood, we accumulate many things and often lose that shoebox full of treasured memories and mementos.  The roar of a crowd, the crack of a bat or the squeaking of high tops on a gymnasium floor triggers a familiar feeling.  It is the echo of lost youth and past accomplishments – an energy that never dissipates. The soul of that exact moment lingers.  It is the spirit of a time where for once in your life, you gave it everything you had and you were rewarded the ultimate prize.  As I listen to my boys preen and recount their accomplishment and as I watch them hug and high five their teammates and coaches, I smile.  I mentally open my shoebox and caress that tired scrap of green felt and think, what a season that was …that championship season.

 

Turkey Bowl

Thanksgiving postcard circa 1900 showing a tur...
Image via Wikipedia

Turkey Bowl

Lucy van Pelt: Charlie Brown, I’ll hold the ball and you run up and kick it.

Charlie Brown: Hold it? Ha! You’ll just pull it away and I’ll fall flat on my back and kill myself.

Lucy van Pelt: I wouldn’t do that. It’s Thanksgiving.

Charlie Brown: What does Thanksgiving have to do with anything?

Lucy van Pelt: One of our most cherished traditions is the Thanksgiving football game.

Charlie Brown: Gee, I guess if it is a tradition, it would be an honor. She wouldn’t pull it away if it is a tradition. This time I’m gonna kick that ball clear to the moon!

[he runs to kick the ball, but Lucy pulls it away]

Charlie Brown: Aaauuugh! [falls flat on his back]

Lucy van Pelt: Isn’t it peculiar how some traditions just fade away?   – Charles Schultz, “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving”

The Thanksgiving Day football game is a rich side dish served on a day where each American consumes an average of 16,000 calories while at the same time giving thanks for life’s simplest pleasures.  On this gilded holiday, we are reminded of the blessings that we often take for granted such as proton pump inhibitors, analgesic heat rubs, knee braces and a gluteus minimus that does not swell into a gluteus maximus after a long touchdown run.  The Turkey Bowl is a ritual whose championship trophy is forged from silver bragging rites and golden nostalgia.  It’s principle ingredients are any ambulatory human aged 6-60, a beat up football and most importantly, mud – – caked, brown malleable clay, a symbol of our temporal toil and a timeless tribute to our agrarian DNA.  As Americans, we landed in the mud, we rose out of the mud, we fought in the mud, eventually we hired other people to work for us in the mud and then we invented Tide to eliminate any evidence that we ever actually consorted with mud.  But, each Thanksgiving morning, we return to the peat bogs of our past to refresh old rivalries and lay claim to another year of bragging rites and hyperbole.

In California, Thanksgiving arrived unceremoniously on a warm desert wind sweeping down across silent, vacant freeways and empty schools.  Our house fashioned out of Marine Corps dogma and the testosterone of five men grew restless at the percussion of chopping knives and the regular entreaties for someone to “please peel the potatoes and green beans.”  The low dulcet tones and punctuated spikes of laughter from a generation of kitchen matriarchs mixed with the reassuring aroma of sautéed onions and baking turkey.  A football suddenly bounced off the den window.  Outside, a boy in sweats had appeared, grinning in a tear away shirt and cleats.  There was a sudden rush of motion as we mustered outside ready to bike the two blocks to our local junior high school where a sea of jerseys and baseball caps pitched and argued over the balance of talent and rules of engagement.

The local Turkey Bowl was a one time annual opportunity to run with the larger dogs of our neighborhood – – siblings home from college and older kids that would normally look right past you as too small or too insignificant to join them in any sport.  Yet, on this day, a spirited tackle or timely body block might win a rare compliment from an older idol that would be gratefully deposited in one’s shoebox of memorabilia and taken out many times over a lifetime of self reflection.  There were broken bones and stitches – -badges of honor and fodder for the bragging rite debates that would ensue later in the winter.  As in life, there were broken plays, personal fouls, selfless acts, winners and losers.  There was instant acceptance when one was picked to play on a team.  It was a Christmas morning thrill to watch as an older teenager opened his muddy, catcher’s glove palm and designed a play, especially for you – “Turp, go five yards out and turn around.”  It was the old button hook and it was my play, designed exclusively for me like a jewel encrusted Faberge egg.  Me! – a mere 11 year old paramecium was deemed worthy of possibly receiving a pass from this multi-celled seventeen year old God.  Just one problem, I was being guarded by a sixteen year old with bad acne, mood swings and suborbital ridges that suggested that someone in his family was discovered by Dr Leakey.

“Ready, set, you bet, go Charlie go, hike!”

As I sprinted to my spot, the older defender shoved me roughly to the ground like a rag doll.  “Sorry kid” he flipped with a smirk.  Back in the huddle, everyone was hissing that they were open. I was busy rubbing the dirt out of my eyes. Each down, I was repeatedly tossed to the ground unable to complete my “button hook.” By the fourth quarter, I had eaten more mud than an earthworm. The score was tied 49-49.  I had not touched the ball.

Someone’s sibling rode up with a summons from home and there was talk of ending this year’s grudge match in a tie. “That’s like kissin’ yer sister” someone yelled.  Another shouted,” One more set of downs!”  I was once again lined up against my delinquent tormentor but instead of running my assigned button-hook, I turned suddenly and sprinted long as if the devil himself was chasing me.  I screamed and waved my hands.  The ball was launched in my direction and my heart leapt as I stumbled through the mud never taking my eye off the spiraling pigskin. My opponent had fallen down and I was alone behind the defense.  The pass seemed to hang in the autumn air for an eternity.  It fell into my arms and bounced off my chest careening away from my body.  I dove forward grasping like a drowning man, my arms and fingers straining for the deflection.  My fingers clawed under the muddy ball preventing it from hitting the dirt.  I fell awkwardly feeling a white flash of pain in my knee.  But I held on.  Celebratory screams from down field confirmed my reception and as I rose grimacing, I spiked the ball.  With the TD, the game disintegrated. But, our team had won.

As I limped to my bike, I heard the deep baritone of the seventeen year old icon, “great catch, Turp”.  I blushed with self conscious satisfaction and weaved my way home, tossing the ball in the air and catching it.  Later, as I donned my dreaded holiday dinner ensemble, the shirt collar did not feel so tight, and the gray wool slacks did not itch so much, and the hand me down loafers did not bite my heels   That night, turkey never tasted so good.  The mashed potatoes melted on my tongue like butter on a hot skillet. The pumpkin pie seemed snatched straight from the open window sill of an Amish farmhouse.

On this day, I had much to be thankful for.  I had entered the pantheon of Turkey Bowl heroes, scoring the winning touchdown.  Me, the single cell amoeba.  Perhaps, I was on my way to evolving into something bigger, and more noble.  Alas, I would have to wait until next Thanksgiving.  Only 364 days to go.

Yards To Go Before I Sleep

[Otis Love Guernsey, football player and "...
Image by The Library of Congress via Flickr

Yards To Go Before I Sleep

“ Football is 90% temper and 10% mental “   Doug Plank, ex-Chicago Bear

Neurosurgeons note each year in September that there is a marked increase in male testosterone levels.  Brain scans reveal new levels of activity in cerebellums that have been dormant since early February.  For most, autumn is a time for back to school celebrations, pumpkins, apple picking and a landscape brushed from a palette of reds, oranges and golds.  It is also football season. Booyah !

Over the course of so many seasons, I have noticed how certain people, particularly men,  rely on sports analogies as a framework for relating to any situation.  During last year’s Pop Warner football season, I lampooned many of our most scared institutions – coaches, parents, politicians and our vicarious preoccupation with pre-pubescent gridiron, subjecting the parents of our then fifth grade players to a series of nonsensical newsletters simply titled, “Under The Bleachers”.  In one edition, I managed to memorialize the metaphors muttered most by manic men (how’s that for alliteration?).  These catch phrases are universal bridges guaranteed to penetrate to the thickest skull when trying to make a point.  They are the lowest common denominator of literary vehicles.

He tends to out punt his coverage – This individual has a habit of getting ahead of himself and his team and in doing so, exposes the squad to a negative consequence.

A good punt allows the kicking team to get down the field to prevent any return.  In business, people who out kick coverage are usually found in Sales and Marketing.  It’s often also referred to “writing checks one does not have the ability to cash”.

He’s played a little too long without a helmet – This person is generally a dullard, oaf, boor or a health insurance executive.  Rarely is this person aware of this fact.

I have seen better hands on a grandfather clock – The person in question has poor hand eye coordination that results in constantly dropped passes, missed catches or poor performance on a first date.  This individual would probably be best employed as a firewatcher or rickshaw driver.

He’s a few yards short of a first down – Metaphorically, this suggests a person does not completely possess the skills necessary to complete a complicated task and would best be suited in non skill positions such as politics or working for the CIA in foreign intelligence

This coach is depriving a village of an idiot somewhere – generally used when a coach has made a poor decision causing great harm to his/her team.  The practice of employing village idiots is now illegal in the world except in parts of the District of Columbia and England.  “So many walls, so little time” – The English Idiot Creed

He zigged when he should have zagged – This describes an individual player that made the worst possible choice and as a result, the play ended in disaster.  It can also apply to any circumstance where someone with 50% odds of success makes the wrong decision. This often results in tragic consequences.  Example:  John Wayne Bobbit zigged when he should have zagged and Lorena got the better of him.

Time for a Hail Mary – This refers to a wild, last ditch effort – – normally a trick play or long bomb pass to attempt to win.  As with all football, it has a clearly Catholic theme.  For Protestants, it is a suspicious play.  It was most likely first attempted at Notre Dame University when the team had one last play to go eighty yards to score against a protestant university.  “Hail Mary, Mother of Grace” was possibly uttered in the huddle and forever became synonymous with a call for a miracle.  The baseball equivalent of a Hail Mary is “swinging for the fences “.  The singles bar equivalent is asking the person you just met what they like to eat for breakfast.

The best defense is a good offense – This strategy is well understood by any married couple and is a commonly deployed strategy by wives to deflect attention from legitimate points of view during an argument.  In football, a sustained offensive push can keep one’s team from being put on the defensive.  This is also a device used by men who are on the cusp of losing arguments with the opposite sex. .  For example, let’s say you roll in at 4 a.m. with a ripped suit , black eye and lipstick written on your forehead that reads “ I am a pig “.  The best defense in this situation is:  a) blame it on your best friend, b) laugh and say it is all one big misunderstanding,  c)throw yourself on the mercy of the court, or d) go on offense and pick a fight with your spouse over the fact that Village Cleaners did not drop off your laundry that day. Answer: D

You can only option right so long before you get thrown for a big loss – as a general rule of thumb, it’s best not to keep calling the same play as your opposition will adjust and catch on, possibly resulting in a loss of yardage.  This also applies to moderate democrats who have the occasion to run right and in doing so, attempt to garner a broader base of votes without really intending to stay right.  Some one may produce a photo of you in the sixties burning a flag or dancing at Woodstock.

He was born in the end zone and thought he scored a touchdown – The actual comment was attributed to President W and drew on baseball: “ he was born on third base and thought he hit a triple “ This applies to anyone who as the result of luck, birthright or impeccable timing starts with a highly advantaged situation but seems to forget this fact and behaves as if they have accomplished great things.  This analogy is often used as a pejorative political devise or a non sequitor to deflect a question about one’s opponent.

Football is America’s sport.  It has served as an important refuge for the strong, the unimaginative and those with overactive pituitary glands.  But it’s greatest gift is it’s clever metaphors which serve as a masculine lingua franca in every mental locker room across America.