Sanis Prent
Oct 23rd, 2001, 03:55:48 AM
I've played a lot of sports in my life. Some for grins, some in little leagues, and some for school. Baseball, Basketball, Hockey, Wrestling, Shotput (one of my favorites), Discus, Soccer, Rugby, Ultimate Frisbee (fun as hell), and even water polo...which is freakin hard and one of the most physically demanding sports around. Played backyard football alot, but I must make clear, backyard football and real football are the same in name only.
All of these were fun, and great sports to get involved with, but from the time I was 8 years old until I graduated high school, FOOTBALL was life. Utterly. No other game is as demanding, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. No other sport demands 8-15 hours of practice each week for a single one-hour game. In that aspect, its very much a war-like endeavor. The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war. I utterly dreaded practices, because they were three hours of blood, vomit, sweat, and sometimes tears. I've seen my buddies get mangled to the point of bone-splintering compound fractures. I myself have lost nearly a pint of blood from a collision-related full sinus hemhorrage, gotten fluid on my spinal cord more times than once from getting speared in the back, and had my knee slashed open until I could see bone. My best friend's had enough broken arms, ankles, knees and such that he should be needing cybernetic implants. He's still dealing with a bad back and terrible knees. Every winter, my left knee swells, and makes cracking sounds when I walk. All of us, hands, arms, legs, covered with battle scars, most of us have taken hospital trips more than we'd like. You think the pads take away the hurt? They invite more punishment than you can know. Ever run at full sprint from 40 yards out to hit a 270 pound all-state defensive tackle who bench presses 380 pounds and runs a 40 yard dash in 5.3 seconds? I'm not talking about those clotheslining Rugby armtackles, either. In football, you turn your entire body into a torpedo, a freight train of kinetic energy, and when you hit, even with pads...the light momentarily fades from your eyes, and you see little red stars. In the split second that cognitive function returns to your head, you remember to keep low, and drive your feet through the hit. Sometimes it works. Against above-said all-state tackle, you get deflected like a pebble thrown at a Panzer tank. I was 190 pounds, benched 225 and ran my 40 in 5.6 seconds when I was in high school. I was the smallest, weakest, and slowest man on the line. Every day, I battled against the other linemen, and putting reputations on the line. We did it to make each other better, and sometimes to prove a point to those who said we couldn't make it. I may have been the smallest, slowest, and weakest...but I never quit. I earned the position I played for my team because I'd sooner work myself unconcious than say that I was a quitter. Thats an attitude that football bred in me.
Its a combat mentality, and being a man of many sports, I can say that I've only seen that effect in football. Something about a mid-september practice on a sun-parched strip of grass, the sun beating down on you like an angry god. The heat makes you hallucinate, almost drawing you to your knees once you get a chance to stop moving. You seem to be burning alive under your suit of armor, a mist-cloud of steam rises from your head when you remove your helmet. There's a garden hose by the side of the field house, dispensing warm, dirty, metallic-tasting water. But its the best tasting water you'll ever drink. Nobody refuses it. Its revered like holy water from the river Jordan, but at the same time, given freely to those in need. You'll always remember that water. You pass your buddy...the guy who plays just down the line from you. You know everything about that man, because you've been through the jaws of hell and back with him. You know his shoesize, his girlfriend's birthday, what his favorite color is. You know what makes him laugh, makes him cry, and you know exactly how to help him survive. He does the same for you. This man probably picked you up off the dusty ground several times in the summer, when you collapsed from running 10 miles cross-country. Picked you up, wiped the vomit from your mouth and nose with his own workout shirt, and gave you enough hope to keep you on your feet. He is your brother, as surely as if you shared the same mother. Its an understood that this man will back you in a fight. Years after the game, you'll still carry this bond with you.
The greatest friend I have ever had in my life is my fullback. Every down, I waged war in the trenches, destroying anybody who wanted to get to him. He was great...a star. The funny thing is, nobody knows the guys who duke it out in the trenches. The only time you hear our names is from missed blocks or penalties. I never minded though. Maybe its sappy, but there's a greater glory involved in a silent war like that. The people in the stands never see that key block...but all of your brothers do. They stand on your shoulders a little and become giants. Mat was the first to tell me I did a good job. When he had great games...he'd buy me a case of beer. Eventually, I had to stop drinkin with him, cause it didn't feel right to take all the man's beer. But I guess it was his own way of making sure that I felt a little bit of that glory that he got when he crossed the endzone. Brotherly love and comraderie over cheering fans anyday, if you ask me.
The only thing the fan sees is what happens on the gridiron. The hours of toil that prepare for that titanic battle go unseen. They never see the true nature of the game. Its our reward for the labor we have toiled through for an entire week. Its also one of those games that you can never get back. Any other sport, you can organize and get a game. Its not too hard. Most rely on inherent abilities and basic skills. Football is different in this. To equip one player costs nearly 300 dollars, for the clothes, pads, and everything else. Find 100 yards of land, chalk it, mark it, build goalposts. And also have enough dedication to train yourself to good physical fitness, and practice enough hours a week to stay sharp. Don't forget to scout other teams, watch game film, and prepare a weekly strategy. Does the option work on their defense? What coverage does their secondary work in? When they run the Wing T, do they prefer stong-side off-tackle pitches, or do they trap on the weak side? Forming the strategy alone is almost another full-time job.
In short, it can't be replicated. Once you hang up your pads, be it in little league, varsity ball, college, pro, or whatever....you are done. You can never get it back. Despite all the pain, agony, and torture of the preseason, practices, and off season, I'd gladly do it again. There is no sport out there that breeds that kind of bond, and aside from maybe boxing, no sport trains as exceedingly long as football. One of the hardest times I cried was my last game as a Senior. We'd made it to the playoffs, but got beat out by an option-running team. I walked off to the locker room, and I realized that...thats it. I'm done. I will never play football again. The sport I'd played for ten years...which had as much to do with who I was as my parents, school, or God. I could never go back. Thats a sobering feeling, and it struck me to the quick. I cried...long and hard, because it was gone. Mat, and all of my senior brothers cried as well. We were there an hour later, supporting each other, else we'd collapse to the ground.
Its far more than a game. Thats only what the fans see.
All of these were fun, and great sports to get involved with, but from the time I was 8 years old until I graduated high school, FOOTBALL was life. Utterly. No other game is as demanding, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. No other sport demands 8-15 hours of practice each week for a single one-hour game. In that aspect, its very much a war-like endeavor. The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war. I utterly dreaded practices, because they were three hours of blood, vomit, sweat, and sometimes tears. I've seen my buddies get mangled to the point of bone-splintering compound fractures. I myself have lost nearly a pint of blood from a collision-related full sinus hemhorrage, gotten fluid on my spinal cord more times than once from getting speared in the back, and had my knee slashed open until I could see bone. My best friend's had enough broken arms, ankles, knees and such that he should be needing cybernetic implants. He's still dealing with a bad back and terrible knees. Every winter, my left knee swells, and makes cracking sounds when I walk. All of us, hands, arms, legs, covered with battle scars, most of us have taken hospital trips more than we'd like. You think the pads take away the hurt? They invite more punishment than you can know. Ever run at full sprint from 40 yards out to hit a 270 pound all-state defensive tackle who bench presses 380 pounds and runs a 40 yard dash in 5.3 seconds? I'm not talking about those clotheslining Rugby armtackles, either. In football, you turn your entire body into a torpedo, a freight train of kinetic energy, and when you hit, even with pads...the light momentarily fades from your eyes, and you see little red stars. In the split second that cognitive function returns to your head, you remember to keep low, and drive your feet through the hit. Sometimes it works. Against above-said all-state tackle, you get deflected like a pebble thrown at a Panzer tank. I was 190 pounds, benched 225 and ran my 40 in 5.6 seconds when I was in high school. I was the smallest, weakest, and slowest man on the line. Every day, I battled against the other linemen, and putting reputations on the line. We did it to make each other better, and sometimes to prove a point to those who said we couldn't make it. I may have been the smallest, slowest, and weakest...but I never quit. I earned the position I played for my team because I'd sooner work myself unconcious than say that I was a quitter. Thats an attitude that football bred in me.
Its a combat mentality, and being a man of many sports, I can say that I've only seen that effect in football. Something about a mid-september practice on a sun-parched strip of grass, the sun beating down on you like an angry god. The heat makes you hallucinate, almost drawing you to your knees once you get a chance to stop moving. You seem to be burning alive under your suit of armor, a mist-cloud of steam rises from your head when you remove your helmet. There's a garden hose by the side of the field house, dispensing warm, dirty, metallic-tasting water. But its the best tasting water you'll ever drink. Nobody refuses it. Its revered like holy water from the river Jordan, but at the same time, given freely to those in need. You'll always remember that water. You pass your buddy...the guy who plays just down the line from you. You know everything about that man, because you've been through the jaws of hell and back with him. You know his shoesize, his girlfriend's birthday, what his favorite color is. You know what makes him laugh, makes him cry, and you know exactly how to help him survive. He does the same for you. This man probably picked you up off the dusty ground several times in the summer, when you collapsed from running 10 miles cross-country. Picked you up, wiped the vomit from your mouth and nose with his own workout shirt, and gave you enough hope to keep you on your feet. He is your brother, as surely as if you shared the same mother. Its an understood that this man will back you in a fight. Years after the game, you'll still carry this bond with you.
The greatest friend I have ever had in my life is my fullback. Every down, I waged war in the trenches, destroying anybody who wanted to get to him. He was great...a star. The funny thing is, nobody knows the guys who duke it out in the trenches. The only time you hear our names is from missed blocks or penalties. I never minded though. Maybe its sappy, but there's a greater glory involved in a silent war like that. The people in the stands never see that key block...but all of your brothers do. They stand on your shoulders a little and become giants. Mat was the first to tell me I did a good job. When he had great games...he'd buy me a case of beer. Eventually, I had to stop drinkin with him, cause it didn't feel right to take all the man's beer. But I guess it was his own way of making sure that I felt a little bit of that glory that he got when he crossed the endzone. Brotherly love and comraderie over cheering fans anyday, if you ask me.
The only thing the fan sees is what happens on the gridiron. The hours of toil that prepare for that titanic battle go unseen. They never see the true nature of the game. Its our reward for the labor we have toiled through for an entire week. Its also one of those games that you can never get back. Any other sport, you can organize and get a game. Its not too hard. Most rely on inherent abilities and basic skills. Football is different in this. To equip one player costs nearly 300 dollars, for the clothes, pads, and everything else. Find 100 yards of land, chalk it, mark it, build goalposts. And also have enough dedication to train yourself to good physical fitness, and practice enough hours a week to stay sharp. Don't forget to scout other teams, watch game film, and prepare a weekly strategy. Does the option work on their defense? What coverage does their secondary work in? When they run the Wing T, do they prefer stong-side off-tackle pitches, or do they trap on the weak side? Forming the strategy alone is almost another full-time job.
In short, it can't be replicated. Once you hang up your pads, be it in little league, varsity ball, college, pro, or whatever....you are done. You can never get it back. Despite all the pain, agony, and torture of the preseason, practices, and off season, I'd gladly do it again. There is no sport out there that breeds that kind of bond, and aside from maybe boxing, no sport trains as exceedingly long as football. One of the hardest times I cried was my last game as a Senior. We'd made it to the playoffs, but got beat out by an option-running team. I walked off to the locker room, and I realized that...thats it. I'm done. I will never play football again. The sport I'd played for ten years...which had as much to do with who I was as my parents, school, or God. I could never go back. Thats a sobering feeling, and it struck me to the quick. I cried...long and hard, because it was gone. Mat, and all of my senior brothers cried as well. We were there an hour later, supporting each other, else we'd collapse to the ground.
Its far more than a game. Thats only what the fans see.