Thirty-three years ago, our 1st Annual Turkey Bowl was played on
Thanksgiving Day. There were fifteen ten-years-olds, full of
vim-and-vigor, and we all wanted to mimic our favorite players
(Bradshaw, Jergensson, Kilmer, Harris, Ham, Balitnokoff, Branch)...

During most of those thirty-three years, we kept The Game alive --
rain or shine, sleet or frost, heat or cold -- because weather just
wasn't an excuse.

On our Fifth anniversary, The Game grew from fifteen teenagers out to
prove our manhood to forty-five teenagers and adults. Fathers that
were usually unwilling to join in the celebration previously suddenly
found Youth Lost and rejoiced for five hours in the early morning dew.

During Anniversaries 6-17, The Game turn into The Games as teams were
formed from neighborhoods, extended families (cross-culturalism was
alive) that brought down their Holiday Warriors, and distances
traveled often added extra spice for the veterans. We saw
game-induced-injuries -- broken arms, shoulders, legs, teeth --
increase because our bodies became larger, the hits more intense, and
the athletic prowess needed to be a hero more extreme. To combat this
tidal wave of Pain, arms and legs, hips and elbows became padded,
fingers were taped, and mouth-pieces were demanded of all
participants.

On the 18th Anniversary, our original group broke away and because
Caveman Football¹ didn't offer the same edge from previous years. We
found the need to go to work on Monday more important than performing
a bone-breaking, concussion-inducing goal-line stand.

The enjoyment from that single game -- that had been gone for so many
years -- returned and renewed the Faithful with Purpose.

For the next four years we played and remembered past glories. There
was a calmness about The Game again that often provided the
metaphysical reasoning we needed to continue playing. Many of the boys
were newlyweds (or still enjoying the extended intoxication of other
young couples) during these years. We kept new recruiting to a minimum
and saw three of our largest potato-munching, beer-swilling couch
generals retire to the sidelines.

Then the 22nd Anniversary hit. Boys that were once inseparable found
getting three hours of free time difficult; often impossible. This
anniversary also brought about physical changes. The runs weren't as
fast and often ended out of bounds with no tackles. The great catches
over the middle in a group of players weren't happening. The blocking
-- non-existent. (Well; it was always non-existent with all those
Swans available, now it was just more obvious during this Game.) The
two regular QB's weren't throwing the sharp spiral of their youths --
many of the passes often looked closer to a Billy-Kilmer-Knuckleball.
Recruiting took on a new angle; younger brothers were invited to this
Game and with the new infusion of blood came heavier hits and harder
falls. Bruised bodies and five concussions were the winners that day.
And the injured didn't heal like they once had.

The 24th Anniversary, saw the last of the boys married, most had
children, and (even worse) most were showing off their newfound trait
of The Responsible Adult. Our cheering section had grown, too, and now
doubled as the first aid station. This was convenient because one of
the two quarterbacks experienced some cracked ribs and a concussion;
one of the two concussions that day. Said injury occurred from not
throwing the ball away in time and getting tackled on top of said ball
while carrying a half-ton Silverback Ape on his back.

The 25th Anniversary rushed in like Lawrence Taylor on crack;
wild-eyed and careless. Calls were made just hours prior to Game time.
Some of the boys made excuses. Wives denied access to husbands that
weren't able to make excuses. But Hunters are able to bring down prey
through a multitude of tricks and The Game saw many of the boys
show... With families in tow. People stood around talking and joking,
eating and drinking. The boys showed a reluctance to play but The Game
drew them in.

The 27th Anniversary, saw The Game morph into The Picnic. Families
(some returning to the neighborhood for the first time in several
years) showed up with coffee, donuts, pastries, teas, tables, and
larger children. Men no longer stayed in the game but found sitting
and watching more enjoyable. Some didn't even want to join in The Game
but came out to socialize. The Game faded quickly as we all realized
that Pain often followed The Game and that Advil and Tylenol didn't
keep Pain at bay. Pain just wasn't as much fun to experience now as
mature adults as it was during our teenage angst.

The 28th Anniversary, saw not one boy in shorts or torn sweats. The
cleats had been moth balled. No football was pumped into a steel
bullet. The Picnic was another reason to show off Trout, brag about
careers, or just sit and listen. Someone -- thoughtfully -- brought a
soccer ball and forty-two sprog swarmed across the field. A funny
thought hit the fifteen boys at that point; The Game did what it had
always done -- change to fit the needs.

[¹] The lowest common denominator football becomes. Games are played
for one reason; to hurt an opposing player for an imagined insult or
wrong. A special ranking² was acknowledged for the player with the
highest body count.
[²] The Jack Tatum³ Comparison.
[³] Former Oakland Raider safety, The Assassin.

The Ranger

In article >,
The Ranger > wrote:

> Thirty-three years ago, our 1st Annual Turkey Bowl was played on
> Thanksgiving Day. There were fifteen ten-years-olds, full of
> vim-and-vigor, and we all wanted to mimic our favorite players
> (Bradshaw, Jergensson, Kilmer, Harris, Ham, Balitnokoff, Branch)...
>
> During most of those thirty-three years, we kept The Game alive --
> rain or shine, sleet or frost, heat or cold -- because weather just
> wasn't an excuse.

O God, not you, too. WhatsHisName plays every Sunday morning and they
also play on Thanksgiving. "I promise I'll be home by noon." He
wasn't. What's interesting is that several had made the same promise,
he said, but they all decided to stay for whatever called them. Never
mind family obligations. "I have to play football. I just have to,"
SFB, IMO.
--
http://www.jamlady.eboard.com, updated 11-23-05 - Potica!

On Fri, 25 Nov 2005 19:40:22 -0600, Melba's Jammin'
> replied:
>In article >, The Ranger > wrote:
> > Thirty-three years ago, our 1st Annual Turkey Bowl was played on
> > Thanksgiving Day. There were fifteen ten-years-olds, full of
> > vim-and-vigor, and we all wanted to mimic our favorite players
> > (Bradshaw, Jergensson, Kilmer, Harris, Ham, Balitnokoff, Branch)...
> >
> > During most of those thirty-three years, we kept The Game alive --
> > rain or shine, sleet or frost, heat or cold -- because weather just
> > wasn't an excuse.
> >
> O God, not you, too.

Yes, ma'am, guilty as charged. We played every Sunday August through
February for most of those years. Now I'm passing on the torch to
Daughter-unit Beta who can throw a 40-yard tight beam spiral to her
sister, Alpha, across the middle with bodies all about.

> WhatsHisName plays every Sunday morning and they
> also play on Thanksgiving. "I promise I'll be home by noon."
> He wasn't.

<EG> Kick-off is 7:30am; final whistle is the one that has to go to
the ER. What's so unspecific about that?

> What's interesting is that several had made the same promise,
> he said, but they all decided to stay for whatever called them.
> Never mind family obligations. "I have to play football. I just
> have to," SFB, IMO.

I still don't see the problem here...

The Ranger

In article >,
The Ranger > wrote:

> On Fri, 25 Nov 2005 19:40:22 -0600, Melba's Jammin'
> > replied:
> >In article >, The Ranger
> > wrote:
> > > During most of those thirty-three years, we kept The Game alive --
> > > rain or shine, sleet or frost, heat or cold -- because weather just
> > > wasn't an excuse.
> > >
> > O God, not you, too.
>
> Yes, ma'am, guilty as charged. We played every Sunday August through
> February for most of those years. Now I'm passing on the torch to
> Daughter-unit Beta who can throw a 40-yard tight beam spiral to her
> sister, Alpha, across the middle with bodies all about.

I wonder how much of that telepathic-twin stuff comes into play here.
Tell Beta that I salute her -- and used to be able to throw a decent
spiral myself. (When we played baseball, I was always picked before
Carl T, I was a decent hitter; he was a wuss.)
>
> > WhatsHisName plays every Sunday morning and they
> > also play on Thanksgiving. "I promise I'll be home by noon."
> > He wasn't.
>
> <EG> Kick-off is 7:30am; final whistle is the one that has to go to
> the ER. What's so unspecific about that?

It's rude.

> > What's interesting is that several had made the same promise,
> > he said, but they all decided to stay for whatever called them.
> > Never mind family obligations. "I have to play football. I just
> > have to," SFB, IMO.
>
> I still don't see the problem here...

<smirk>

> The Ranger
--
http://www.jamlady.eboard.com, updated 11-23-05 - Potica!

On Sat, 26 Nov 2005 08:34:23 -0600, Melba's Jammin'
> replied:
> In article >, The Ranger > wrote:
> > Now I'm passing on the torch to
> > Daughter-unit Beta who can throw a 40-yard tight beam
> > spiral to her sister, Alpha, across the middle with bodies all about.
> >
> I wonder how much of that telepathic-twin stuff comes into
> play here.

Given that the two are now being split and picked to be on separate
teams, little-if-any; it might be as simple as talent.

> Tell Beta that I salute her -- and used to be able to throw a decent
> spiral myself. (When we played baseball, I was always picked before
> Carl T, I was a decent hitter; he was a wuss.)

That's Beta! "I wanna play baseball, basketball, softball, football,
and soccer! And against the boyz..." She's good at them all, too!
Usually first-picked. It's great when a recessive gene takes control
in a positive fashion. (Now if only that Valedictorian Gene would
choose to surface...)

The Ranger

On Sat, 26 Nov 2005 07:43:13 -0800, The Ranger
> rummaged among random neurons and opined:

>That's Beta! "I wanna play baseball, basketball, softball, football,
>and soccer! And against the boyz..." She's good at them all, too!
>Usually first-picked. It's great when a recessive gene takes control
>in a positive fashion. (Now if only that Valedictorian Gene would
>choose to surface...)

Good for her! When my daughter was about 8, they started a soccer
league in the town, but didn't have enough girls to have a girls'
league, so it was "mixed." "Mixed," in that the girls teams played the
boys teams and at this age, girls are more agile and quicker than
boys. The first time they played a boys' team (coached by a good
friend who was originally from Scotland), the boys were shocked at how
aggressive the girls were. One of the boys limped off to the sidelines
and said, "Coach! Those girls are *kicking* us!" (in order to steal
the ball). Coach looked at the kid and said, "Oh, you poor wee thing.
You'll just have to run faster, then, won't you, laddie?"

Encourage 'em now and they'll be the healthier for it, IMHO.

Terry "Squeaks" Pulliam Burd
AAC(F)BV66.0748.CA

"If the soup had been as hot as the claret, if the claret had been as
old as the bird, and if the bird's breasts had been as full as the
waitress's, it would have been a very good dinner."

-- Duncan Hines

To reply, replace "spaminator" with "cox"

On Sun, 27 Nov 2005 15:10:31 -0800, Terry Pulliam Burd
> replied:
> On Sat, 26 Nov 2005 07:43:13 -0800, The Ranger > rummaged among random neurons and opined:
> > That's Beta! "I wanna play baseball, basketball, softball, football,
> > and soccer! And against the boyz..." She's good at them all, too!
> > Usually first-picked. It's great when a recessive gene takes control
> > in a positive fashion. (Now if only that Valedictorian Gene would
> > choose to surface...)
> >
> Good for her! When my daughter was about 8, they started a
> soccer league in the town, but didn't have enough girls to have
> a girls' league, so it was "mixed." "Mixed," in that the girls teams
> played the boys teams and at this age, girls are more agile and
> quicker than boys. The first time they played a boys' team
> (coached by a good friend who was originally from Scotland),
> the boys were shocked at how aggressive the girls were. One
> of the boys limped off to the sidelines and said, "Coach!
> Those girls are *kicking* us!" (in order to steal the ball). Coach
> looked at the kid and said, "Oh, you poor wee thing. You'll
> just have to run faster, then, won't you, laddie?"

When we played mixed (boy-v-girl teams) one season, my U[nder]8Gs
were wild, aggressive, spiteful little pixies! The U10Gs flipped;
they were universally the most POLITE tea party socialites I've
ever coached. They'd BUMP another player (boy or girl) and bow
away from the ball, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. There! It's yours!
No, no. Please... Just take it." (The boys, not caring about
manners on or off the field, did just that... <sigh>) My U12G have
discovered the value of having boys chase them... (And they've all
designed self-marketing plans through swearing in front of those
same boys.)

>Encourage 'em now and they'll be the healthier for it, IMHO.

It's why I coach and teach and ask college and professional
examples to show what happens when you live your dreams... <G>

The Ranger