Cutting Back

I played my first year of tackle football in Los Altos, CA.  I was 12.  I'd been intercepting imaginary quarterbacks, and slicing up invisible defenses on my street for years.  It was time for me to put on pads.

My fantasy, Hall of Fame career was unknown to my new teammates.  They didn't know I'd picked off Len Dawson- twice - after last nights dinner, and taken them both to the house.  To them I was number 80, the skinny new Split End.  They showed me my place among them with our first live tackling drill.   I was to stand upright, outside the formation, near the sideline, and run an insignificant pass pattern on each play, while they worked.

That worked perfect for me.  I could wear the pads and helmet, and continue my Hall of Fame career between whistle blows.  I could run with exaggerated movement for the crowd, and then tell the Quarterback I was "wide open" if he felt like throwing one.  I could actually look like a football player without having to get hurt.  That was acceptable, since I was terrified.

Aside from discovering how to hide in plain sight, I learned two things in Pop Warner that I reflect on, still.

The first was courtesy of Karl Pribrum.  Karl was our Fullback.  He wore number 33 and had the same physical attributes of Barney Rubble.  He was short and thick and fast, and Coach would  hand him the ball for a dive up the middle whenever we needed a few yards.  He was hard to tackle, and he had the coolest hair I'd ever seen.  Karl and I became friends.  I still don't know if he liked football.

Karl would put on a Hefty Leaf Bag before every game, and run laps until he sweated enough to make game weight.  He'd run in silence for as long as it took, then he'd strip to his underwear and get on the scale.  His hair would be stuck to his forehead and his body would be glistening as they slid the weight down the scale.  If he'd made weight, he'd put his gear on.  If he didn't, he'd put his bag on and run.  He did the same thing every time.  He never complained, or cut corners.  And he always made weight.

During games, Karl had the same quiet confidence.  He'd charge into the line with determination, and get exactly what we needed.  He was a bull.  Sometimes I'd take a play off just to watch that kid run.  He was a football player.  No matter what happened, Karl would get up again, and take his place in the huddle.  Sometimes his hair was sticking out the holes of his helmet.  Sometimes his pads were turned around.  Almost every time, he was crying.  He'd stand there in back, tears streaming down his face, snot running out his nose, without a sound.  I don't know what drove him, or what he was proving to himself.  All I know is I wanted to be Karl Pribrum, and run through my fears the way he did.

The second thing that stuck was courtesy of my father.  My request to play Pop Warner was met with the first, prolonged interest my father showed toward me.  He talked about what he'd done as a quarterback in high school, in Aurora, Ohio.  He talked about his season at San Jose City College, and the two he played at Stanford.  It was clear, quite quickly, his interest wasn't in me.  It was in the game.  When he was around it he was beautiful.

I caught one pass that season.  It was a post route, and the quarterback hit me in stride.  I sprinted

toward the right sideline, and the Safety misjudged my speed. I cutback, untouched, and scored.  Sixty-five yards of extreme terror, and adrenaline.  After the game my dad was gushing.  He gave me his play-by-play, and when he got to my cutback he said, "Did you hear me scream 'Cutback!' to you?  You must have because at that instant you did. Wheeeeeew! What a run..."
I told him I did.  I told him I'd heard him, and planted my foot on glory.

I'd never seen my dad that happy, and I'd never witnessed him being proud of me.
It didn't matter that all I could hear as I ran was my heartbeat.  
It didn't matter that I didn't plan to plant my foot, or that instinct had taken over.
Part of my father was still alive.  Football showed that to me.

Whatever my father would be capable of sharing with me, would be shared here.
Whatever I'd discover about him would be discovered as I built the identity that would protect me from him.

Football gave the glimpse of the father I craved.
It offered a suggestion about how to know him, when he wanted to remain unknown.
Football had been my father's ticket out of Ohio, and away from his family.
Football would become my way into the family I was trying to understand.
Football would become a way to heal.

I'm the Father now, and I have three sons.

They allow me the marvel I feel as I watch them emerge.

They allow me the joy I feel when I hear their humility.

They allow the awe that overwhelms me each time I see parts they'd kept hidden, exposed.

They allow me to admit that the level of heart, and talent, in each of them,

already exceeds mine.

They allow me to forgive my Father,
 for not knowing how to be one.

"Dear Father"/Music Video:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGFZ9rgN-oA