Joseph Woods, GPC Student

I like most sports, but my favorite would have to be football. I enjoy playing it, talking about it, and even watching it, though I prefer to watch college ball to professional. Maybe it’s the televised violence that draws me to the game. After all, where else can you see grown men pound each other into the ground and then get up and do it all over again. And what’s best of all is that it is perfectly legal. Maybe it’s the teamwork required to be successful that drives me to watch the game, or the thought that possibly my team will make it to the championship this year. I suppose all those reasons play some part in my love of the game, but I think the main reason I enjoy football is the childhood memories it unlocks.

Many a summer afternoon, we’d all gather in the front yard, four houses up from mine, and become the “grid-iron” heroes we watched on television. The best games were neighborhood against neighborhood. They were like our own little “Super Bowl,” and tempers usually flared several times throughout the games. Though I fondly remember several of those games, one game in particular stands out in my mind. It was late summer, school would be starting back soon, and everyone wanted to pack as much into every day as possible. Some of the other guys in our neighborhood had been out setting up the next big game; it was to be against “Northridge,” our rival neighborhood. The intensity of this highly touted game was like that of a Georgia vs. Ga. Tech or Florida vs. Florida State game, and bragging rights were on the line. The loser would have to wait an entire school year for the rematch; we were determined that wouldn’t be us.

The day of the game arrived, and we were the visiting team this year. We packed up all the essentials, met at our field, and set out in a bicycle caravan for the opposing team’s home field. When we arrived, some of our fans were already there, and the heat of the day had already begun to rise. We wasted no time on formalities; the coin toss was made, and possession was picked. We won the coin toss, a good sign. The game started off with both teams scoring at will. The first half went by in a blur, and before I knew it, we were breaking for water.

The second half began much like the first; however, energy levels were beginning to decrease. We were now in the hottest part of the day and tired. Those two ingredients, coupled with the desire to win, make for a volatile situation. As the temperature began to rise, so did the tempers. Before long, the pushing and shoving had begun, and empty threats were being tossed back and forth across the lines. Every time we tackled someone, it was our responsibility to inflict as much pain as possible. It came down to the final minutes of the second half, and we were losing by one touchdown with the ball on their twenty-five yard line. I was one of the four receivers and lined up on the far left. I was to run a “5 & in.” The ball was snapped, and I sprinted off the line with my head down. Two yards, four yards, I looked up in anticipation of the hard right turn I was about to make to complete my pattern. Once I looked up, I knew someone had blown his assignment because I had no defender covering me. I made a decision to forego my pattern and continued straight up the field. As I turned to make eye contact with my quarterback, I realized he had already taken note of the situation and had heaved the ball in my direction. I quickly scanned the horizon and locked on to the egg-shaped target spiraling in my direction. As the ball touched my fingertips, I firmly grasped it and pulled it close to my side. I then concentrated on nothing but the ten yards between the end zone and myself. It was as if I reached down and pulled out every remaining ounce of energy in my body to make one last sprint to the goal.

I had done it; I had scored a touchdown and was slowing down so that I could return and celebrate with the rest of my team. Just as I began to turn around, I saw a streak of red and felt a sharp pain down my left side as I crumbled to the ground. One of the players from the other team was obviously not impressed with my scoring play and had decided to let me know in a most excruciating way. He had blind-sided me at full steam, and, as I was unaware of the impending attack, he had caught me completely unable to protect myself. I fell straight to the ground, my head bouncing off what had to be the only rock in the whole yard. I came to my senses and was painfully lifting myself off the ground when another streak passed by, followed by a grunt as two other bodies fell to the ground near me. I quickly realized it was my brother and apparently the guy who had taken it upon himself to punish me for scoring a touchdown. Before long everyone was involved in the melee, and it continued until the neighborhood parents broke it up and sent us home.

As I reflect on that day, I realize that it wasn’t the touchdown or winning the big game that impressed me most; it was a brother’s love. Maybe there is more to football than grown men in tights; maybe other people have the same fond memories I do. Maybe that’s the camaraderie we share for the game. Nah, it’s the violence.