Football's Finished

It’s official; the football season for the Diminutive Native Americans is finally over. They were soundly defeated by the Miniscule Magenta Mythical Monsters (the fire-breathing kind) in their first playoff game on Saturday (note: I am using politically correct names for the teams involved at the advice of my legal counsel William F. (Bill) Perdieum). That game was ridiculous. Am I wrong, but aren’t game announcers supposed to observe a semblance of impartiality over the PA system? I know the guy had a kid in the game, but did he have to be the cheerleader (“Here we go mythical monsters, here we go…”)? And is it necessary to shout each time any kid gets the ball, “he-could-go all… the… way” in pathetic Chris Berman style? I swear, if I could have found some angry villagers, we would have burned down the concession stand where the announcer sat. Even my 11 year grandson said, “What’s with the announcer dude?” Insightful!


I for one am glad the season is over. I know that most parents were disappointed but not me. Maybe it has to do with my general apathy toward sports which I trace to my troubled childhood. Let me explain…

My first encounter with sports was little league baseball in the summer between 3rd and 4th grade. In those days, no one automatically made the team. Back then, people were not as concerned about damaging a kid’s fragile little psyche. Our team had 15 uniforms and 17 kids trying out. We knew from the beginning that 2 of us would not make the cut, but I never imagined it would be me. Sure, I couldn’t hit – in fact I nearly fainted the first time someone threw a ball at me. But I had a secret weapon – my arm. I could throw the ball far. I was in left field and I ingeniously figured out a way to keep from getting hurt, which was my primary goal. When the ball was hit to left field, I would allow it to drop safely in front of me so I would not get seriously injured if I tried to catch it. Imagine people purposely standing under a dropping ball! Then I would pick it up and, with my rocket arm, I would throw it to the infield so the play could be made at the plate. This, I thought, would increase the dramatic value of the game and make it more spectacular. I could throw the ball far and many times I threw it in the right direction and sometimes to the right person. I knew I was doing well because every time I let the ball drop and threw it in the infield, the coach would gesture some congratulatory body language in my direction.

I was one of the ones cut from the team. I was devastated. I vowed then and there to give up sports and pursue my hobby – comic book reading – with greater intensity. But then came 7th grade.