For seven years I told my parents that I didn’t want to play football and for seven years they signed me up anyway. My dad would drive me to practice with the windows down in the winter so that it would feel warmer outside when I got out of the car. They didn’t organize the kids by age, but instead by height and weight. So naturally I was the oldest kid on every team I’d been on since my rookie year. Most of the coaches were morons that didn’t know how to scheme up anything that wasn’t a run up the middle — and if they wanted to get a little bit fancy they’d have the quarterback pitch it to the outside.
My first year they put me at the end of the offensive line. My second year they kept me on the offensive line and also had me play outiside linebacker. Years three through seven I played offensive line and free safety. Our coach never schemed up any pass plays and was convinced that we could beat every other Pop Warner team in the state if we focused solely on conditioning, so that when the other team was gassed we could perform a bit faster and a bit smarter. Just enough to win the game. Practice was so brutal that I threw up once every couple of weeks.
I can’t remember a single score, a single win, or a single loss. I can’t remember what any of our season records were. I was too busy getting my shit rocked and trying to pretend I wasn’t there.
The head coach — Bill Dipshit — decided that he’d had enough of me one practice.
“Little,” he screamed, “You can’t hesitate right before the tackle goddammit.”
“I don’t think I am, coach.” I responded.
“You are! I’m seeing it with my own eyes. Guess what kids? Time for some Oklahoma.”
The Oklahoma drill is when two players line up around three yards from each other and then hit each other as hard as they can. My coaches decided to do the exact same thing, but from ten yards out. We split the team in half and lined up opposite each other, and when the coach would blow the whistle two kids would shoot out of their stances — one with the ball and one trying to tackle him — run as fast as they could at each other, and seeing who ran who over.
It was my turn.
“Hey, where’s Mike?” Coach Dipshit said.
Mike Dipshit (Full Back) was his son. Biggest kid on the team. Second oldest save for me. He probably wasn’t that big to your average adult, but from my vantage point he looked like 6’2, 260lb behemonth.
“Alright, here we go.”
Coach blew the whistle and Mike ran right over me.
“Still hesitating,” Coach said, “get up there again you two.”
I was hoping it would be over the first time I got flattened, but it looked like I was in for a long night.
“The reason you get knocked on your ass is because you’re hesitating. You have a low center of gravity just keep going, get underneath, wrap up.”
“Okay,”
Coach blew the whistle again and I got put on my ass again.
“Hesitating! Line up again.”
I could’ve sworn I was running right through. I just didn’t have enough meat on me to make a dent in this kid. This cycle continued until the end of practice. For forty-five minutes I lined up against a mammoth and got my clock cleaned. After the first ten times the kids around me starting shouting out advice. They were getting bored. They told me to try and trip him. They told me to grab at his jersey and his pads to try and bring him down. None of it worked.
“We’re not leaving this spot until you take him down, Little.”
I didn’t answer, lined up, and got slammed into the turf again. We stopped when the first set of parents showed up to pick everyone up. Dad asked how practice went. I had a headache and my entire body was sore. It took me around eight seconds to register that somebody asked me a question. It took me around fifteen seconds to remember that this was my dad.
“It was fine,” I said.
I made four worthwhile plays in seven years:
They had no choice but to give me the ball because our running back twisted his ankle and they thought since I had the most experience with the offense that I should get the job. Plus I sucked on the line. They ran me up the middle and I gained 11 yards.
That same game they pitched it out to me on the left. I ran as fast as I could down the outside edge and gained 29 yards. Neither of my parents were there. When my mother arrived to pick me up they told her about how they gave me the ball. She was shocked and asked how I did. Coach Dipshit responded, “That kid looked like a jackrabbit being chased by mountain lions out there.”
We were playing some team that wore the colors yellow and black. I don’t remember the name of the team. 2nd down. The opposing coach must’ve seen what a small outside linebacker our team had and so they swept it out to my side three times in a row. I managed to tackle the guy. Held him to a gain of two. 3rd down. They swept it out to my side again, and again — I held them to a gain of two. 4th down. They were going for it. Everyone always went for it in this league none of the kids could punt. I sniffed out that they were going to send it my way again and tackled the ball-carrier for a loss. Our defensive coach picked me up off the ground by my facemask and screamed, “That’s what I’m talking about!”
I was on the offensive line, sealed the edge against a pretty big kid and our running back ran it in for a 44 yard touchdown.
It was my last year and we’d made it to some championship game. I don’t remember whether it was a State Championship or something like the “Central Mass Championship.” In any case it was a big game and my team wanted it bad. I can’t remember the score. I remember that we were down and we needed one touchdown to win the game. Coach Dipshit decided that they were going to line me up at tight end and have me be the “man in motion.” This is something we never went over in practice. Our coach started frantically drawing up plays on a napkin from the snack bar and tried to explain to me what to do.
For three downs I went out there, motioned outside like the coach told me to, and for three downs I got penalties for not being properly set. Coach Dipshit screamed at me for the entirety of a timeout to tell me how I was losing the game for everyone by fucking up so bad. He benched me and I watched the quarterback desperately try to hit a receiver on a post route and miss. We lost the game and we all sat there silently with a tiny consolation plaque while the other team celebrated on the other side of the field with this gigantic shining trophy. I remember now that it was cloudy outside that day.
“Well, I’m proud of you boys anyway” Coach Dipshit said, “We almost had it, but at least we know we made it here and at least everybody had a little bit of fun.”
I didn’t play again because I moved and was going into high school. None of my friends from the team ever talked to me again.