Football Player

We signed Alex up for tackle football this year expecting it to be similar to his experiences in baseball and basketball. We figured he'd practice once a week and play a few games. No big time commitment, but he'd still have a good time. Well last night was the first practice and we learned a little more about what we got ourselves into.

The team is made up of 3rd & 4th graders from Southern Boone County. They will practice four nights per week. They will play 7 to 10 games including away games in towns as far as Moberly, Fulton, Hallsville, and Jeff City. Each kid will play at least six plays per game, but this is not simply a "just for fun" league. The coaches aim to win every game, while making the experience enjoyeable for all the kids. In short, my baby, my son Alex is playing on a real football team in a real football league.

How did this happen? How is it that I have a child old enough to be playing tackle football? How is it that the child of two band geeks is a football player? It just doesn't seem possible, but when I saw Alex in his full uniform with pads and helmet running drills last night, it seemed all too real. That being said, I am actually quite excited about watching him play. I think he's really going to enjoy it. He wants to play linebacker because, as he said last year during flag football, "Dad, I just wanna HIT somebody! I'm all twitchy." That sounds like a linebacker's mentality to me.

Wish Alex, and whoever the poor kids are who will be unlucky enough to get in his way, good luck. I'll keep you posted on his progress/medical bills.

Fight Scene from Chapter Five of "Burning Couches"

I couldn’t believe it. Chris was serious. There would be no way to worm my way out of the mess I was in. “Okay, friend,” I said as sarcastically as possible. “Let’s do this.” But before we were turned loose on one another, our “corner men” had to pat us down for weapons. Apparently Dave and Rosie had discussed the ground rules on their way home from the Dunes the night before. It became obvious that they had actually been looking forward to our little “battle-royale” since I threw down the challenge at the party. They took their jobs seriously as they each diligently searched Chris and I for hidden weapons. It was all so surreal that I just stood there and tried to force myself to believe that it was all really happening. Suddenly reality, and Chris’s left fist, hit me square in the jaw. Game on. I shook off the initial blow and circled around Chris while he searched for another opening. As he came back in close, I ducked a left hook that would have surely killed me had it connected, and threw my right arm around Chris’s neck. I squeezed with all my might and found myself controlling my flailing opponent in a deep headlock. With my left, I fired uppercut after uppercut into Chris’s face. I landed at least six or seven shots before he finally managed to wrestle himself free. “Wrestle” being the key word, because Chris was a member of the school’s wrestling squad, and he knew exactly how to end the fight at any time. We danced around for a few more minutes and then he made his move. He lunged at my legs for a textbook takedown and had me laid flat on my back before I had any chance to react. His fists started raining down on me while I lay pinned under his weight. We would have never met in an official wrestling match because he outweighed me by a good forty pounds. But there were no such safeguards in place on the golf course that day, and Chris proceeded to pummel me relentlessly. I finally managed to roll onto my belly, which did nothing to stop the pounding Chris was giving me. It only slowed his attack down when his fists started to ache from hammering them repeatedly into the back of my skull. After a few minutes, he at last rolled off of me, utterly exhausted. I lay there for a while, half expecting him to resume, but thankfully, he did not. Our corner men helped us to our feet, dusted us off, and inspected our wounds. I was bleeding from my nose and from a split and swollen lip. Blood trickled down Chris’s face from a nasty gash above his left eye. While catching our breath, we both took a second to look at each other and admire our handiwork.

Dave broke the silence. “Are we all done?” We both nodded. “Good. We still have a case and a half of beer left over from last night.”

“Love Shack?” I asked.

“Love Shack,” Chris agreed.

I vowed to never fight again. As the wise Dave Richards once said, “Fightin’ just gets in the way of drinkin’ beer.” Who could argue with that?

Book Excerpt

The following is just a little teaser pulled from one of the first four chapters of the novel I'm writing. Enjoy.

One of our favorite road trips led us along a winding, dusty road terminating near the Mississippi River at a place just south of town that we called “The Dunes.” Flooding on the river had created several sizeable mounds of sand along this area and it made for a perfect place to convene gatherings of drunken teenagers to play beach volleyball, pitch horseshoes, and do keg-stands. It was far enough from town that we could be as loud and obnoxious as we wanted with no worries about being hassled by cranky neighbors or law enforcement, yet close enough that we could be home in our beds within twenty minutes after the party broke-up. As the sun cast the Big Muddy into shadow, a bonfire would be built and couples would climb around the backside of the dunes to make out. Invariably, someone would blare some Skynrd or Zepplin from their car stereo and as the night wore on and the piles of empties got bigger and bigger, our discussions ranged from “who’s screwing who” and “what does it all mean” to “it doesn’t get any better than this.” To a group of teenaged guys, life couldn’t get any sweeter. Rather than face the reality of our lives at home, we could make our own reality whenever we wanted.