The Football Saga
Oct. 10th, 2004 11:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kybearfuzzI just re-read my last entry and it sounded a bit harsh. I have unresolved issues there, obviously. I'm sure ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teachingcub, the Mr. Psychology he is, would agree. Here's the reason why.
I was never a sports guy, unless it was professional wrestling for obvious reasons. My dad wasn't much for sports really, but he was hit by a truck as a child and never could play.
When I was eight years old, my dad took me and the twin to get our football gear. To this day, I don't recall him ever asking me if I wanted to play, but I'm sure he told my mom that I did. So we went to a nasty locker room full of kids and both my brother and I got suited up. It was very uncomfortable, I recall.
We were told we were going to play football. Naturally, as a kid, the word that caught my attention was "play." Unfortunately, what we did during practice never resembled the word "play." For two long weeks, my brother and I practiced with other kids in the hot Autumn sun, jumping around, running and sweating to the point of dehydration, all in full gear, while a group of overweight, bald men screamed and yelled at us. I always equated being yelled at to my doing something wrong, so this totally baffled me.
After two weeks of this and an occasional scrimage, I had had enough. I no longer had a life outside of practicing. I couldn't go to visit my granny, watch TV, or draw... all because I had football practice nearly every day. One day, my mom was taking me and the twin to football practice and she was heading to my grandmother's afterwards. I decided that I wanted to see her, not the coach, and I told my mom this. She was fine with me skipping. I told my mom that day that I didn't want to play football as it wasn't any fun. The twin went on to practice, I got to spend the afternoon on the front porch of my gran's house drinking iced tea with her. I got the better end of that deal.
My dad wasn't pleased at all. He had some bizarre dream of having two boys playing football, and since I was the bigger of the two, I was more like him. I told him I was done with it, and we hadn't even played our first real game. Dad gave me the dirtiest look I'd ever seen. I recall it to this day. Somehow, my action had hurt him terribly. This began several weeks of him giving me the dirty look and not speaking to me. I was eight. I used to cry because I thought my dad didn't love me anymore. Mom told me it wasn't true, but I overheard her giving Dad hell due to his behavior. It made a lasting impression that marred our relationship, believe it or not, to the day he passed away nearly twenty years later.
Quitting the team wasn't the end of it, I'm afraid. The asshole coach decided to make an example of me, I think. The next school day, my new nickname was "Quitter." Every kid I played with, some of whom were good friends, hit me with it relentlessly. And as if dealing with it at school wasn't bad enough, my twin also regaled me with the nick as often as he could at home. We shared a room, no escape.
So the twin went on to play quarterback, Mom and Dad went to his games. I did too the first few times, but lost interest due to the teasing from my former teammates. It was the first time in my life I truly recall feeling miserable. I hated myself in those days. This was when I began being very quiet, not talking much, becoming very solitary. It's a behavoir that didn't change until college.
From grade school to junior high to high school, I saw how the football team players were elevated to a status of godhood, while we normal students were just cannon fodder, existing in number only, given notice only when someone needed teasing. It was unfair and pathetic. I saw how the football program always had new equipment and uniforms, while other programs suffered for lack of money. I saw total idiots get mooning adoration, where the smart kids were ignored. The system was sad, but I'm sure it's the same in every small town high school.
Mind you, I don't hate the game itself. In fact, if you get a group of guys together to play, I'm right there with them. It's fun and I often have a good time. I just hate the pressure of the academic football system. The truly pivotal moment, the second I came to hate the system, was my junior year when I was editor of the school newspaper. In an interview with the football coaches, the head coach told me in front of an entire class of students that a 2.0 GPA was too high for his players to maintain and that it should be changed to a 1.0. I was floored. So his players couldn't even make the average grade, but should be allowed to settle for poor academic performance, only so they could play more ball. I came to hate this man. For all the hopes he elevated for every steriod-laden jerk with dreams of pro-ball by telling him that his class work was unimportant. He epitomized the cause of every illiterate jock who graduated high school and was forced to take a low-paying, manual labor job because he was too stupid to get into college or find something better.
For every football coach who tells kids that football builds character, that it's an experience that changes boys into men, that it builds comraderie and creates leaders, I say bullshit. It creates bullies. It forms a generation of athletes whose best times in their lives was that last game.. the Al Bundy's of the world who remember their 4th touchdown in one game from 20 years ago as their last shining moment.
So, long-winded though it was, that's the rational for my hating movies like Friday Night Lights. I just can't stomach the idea of coaches who tell any player that he can be the best and to do it for the love of the game, all during a motivating speech accompanied by sympathetic music and dramatic angles. It's hypocrisy.
My nephew is eight. He just started playing football. He's not great at it, but he says he's having fun. His coach is pretty cool, I like him. My sister says that he can play until he no longer enjoys it, his dad agrees. They are great parents.
Oh, and the number of professional football players that started out playing ball at my old high school...... zero.
teachingcub, the Mr. Psychology he is, would agree. Here's the reason why.I was never a sports guy, unless it was professional wrestling for obvious reasons. My dad wasn't much for sports really, but he was hit by a truck as a child and never could play.
When I was eight years old, my dad took me and the twin to get our football gear. To this day, I don't recall him ever asking me if I wanted to play, but I'm sure he told my mom that I did. So we went to a nasty locker room full of kids and both my brother and I got suited up. It was very uncomfortable, I recall.
We were told we were going to play football. Naturally, as a kid, the word that caught my attention was "play." Unfortunately, what we did during practice never resembled the word "play." For two long weeks, my brother and I practiced with other kids in the hot Autumn sun, jumping around, running and sweating to the point of dehydration, all in full gear, while a group of overweight, bald men screamed and yelled at us. I always equated being yelled at to my doing something wrong, so this totally baffled me.
After two weeks of this and an occasional scrimage, I had had enough. I no longer had a life outside of practicing. I couldn't go to visit my granny, watch TV, or draw... all because I had football practice nearly every day. One day, my mom was taking me and the twin to football practice and she was heading to my grandmother's afterwards. I decided that I wanted to see her, not the coach, and I told my mom this. She was fine with me skipping. I told my mom that day that I didn't want to play football as it wasn't any fun. The twin went on to practice, I got to spend the afternoon on the front porch of my gran's house drinking iced tea with her. I got the better end of that deal.
My dad wasn't pleased at all. He had some bizarre dream of having two boys playing football, and since I was the bigger of the two, I was more like him. I told him I was done with it, and we hadn't even played our first real game. Dad gave me the dirtiest look I'd ever seen. I recall it to this day. Somehow, my action had hurt him terribly. This began several weeks of him giving me the dirty look and not speaking to me. I was eight. I used to cry because I thought my dad didn't love me anymore. Mom told me it wasn't true, but I overheard her giving Dad hell due to his behavior. It made a lasting impression that marred our relationship, believe it or not, to the day he passed away nearly twenty years later.
Quitting the team wasn't the end of it, I'm afraid. The asshole coach decided to make an example of me, I think. The next school day, my new nickname was "Quitter." Every kid I played with, some of whom were good friends, hit me with it relentlessly. And as if dealing with it at school wasn't bad enough, my twin also regaled me with the nick as often as he could at home. We shared a room, no escape.
So the twin went on to play quarterback, Mom and Dad went to his games. I did too the first few times, but lost interest due to the teasing from my former teammates. It was the first time in my life I truly recall feeling miserable. I hated myself in those days. This was when I began being very quiet, not talking much, becoming very solitary. It's a behavoir that didn't change until college.
From grade school to junior high to high school, I saw how the football team players were elevated to a status of godhood, while we normal students were just cannon fodder, existing in number only, given notice only when someone needed teasing. It was unfair and pathetic. I saw how the football program always had new equipment and uniforms, while other programs suffered for lack of money. I saw total idiots get mooning adoration, where the smart kids were ignored. The system was sad, but I'm sure it's the same in every small town high school.
Mind you, I don't hate the game itself. In fact, if you get a group of guys together to play, I'm right there with them. It's fun and I often have a good time. I just hate the pressure of the academic football system. The truly pivotal moment, the second I came to hate the system, was my junior year when I was editor of the school newspaper. In an interview with the football coaches, the head coach told me in front of an entire class of students that a 2.0 GPA was too high for his players to maintain and that it should be changed to a 1.0. I was floored. So his players couldn't even make the average grade, but should be allowed to settle for poor academic performance, only so they could play more ball. I came to hate this man. For all the hopes he elevated for every steriod-laden jerk with dreams of pro-ball by telling him that his class work was unimportant. He epitomized the cause of every illiterate jock who graduated high school and was forced to take a low-paying, manual labor job because he was too stupid to get into college or find something better.
For every football coach who tells kids that football builds character, that it's an experience that changes boys into men, that it builds comraderie and creates leaders, I say bullshit. It creates bullies. It forms a generation of athletes whose best times in their lives was that last game.. the Al Bundy's of the world who remember their 4th touchdown in one game from 20 years ago as their last shining moment.
So, long-winded though it was, that's the rational for my hating movies like Friday Night Lights. I just can't stomach the idea of coaches who tell any player that he can be the best and to do it for the love of the game, all during a motivating speech accompanied by sympathetic music and dramatic angles. It's hypocrisy.
My nephew is eight. He just started playing football. He's not great at it, but he says he's having fun. His coach is pretty cool, I like him. My sister says that he can play until he no longer enjoys it, his dad agrees. They are great parents.
Oh, and the number of professional football players that started out playing ball at my old high school...... zero.
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no subject
Date: 2004-10-11 06:00 pm (UTC)Oh I'm bitter, but I still enjoy playing. Beware the coach that crosses my path. If I were a parent with a kid who played sports, I'd be watching that coach like a hawk. The minute he stepped out of line, I'd have him for lunch.