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"You wanna play on my flag football team?" A beefy catcher made me the offer while our softball team chugged $1 domestic beers at Jackhammer, a bar on Chicago’s far north side. It was mid-September 2003, and we were hanging out in the rear garden. The team went there after our Thursday-night games because the place offered cheap drinks and free pizza. Both of us competed for playing time at the same position. I’d figured that my teammate wouldn’t want to see any more of me than was necessary. Thinking he was trying to start a friendship, I said: "Sure, but I can’t do all of the games." "Just come when you can." He gave me two instructions: (1) find the offensive plays and league rules on the team’s web site, and (2) show up for Saturday’s season opener at Warren Park. Two days later I hopped on the Red Line for the train ride north, and pondered whether doing the sport was a mistake. At 36, I had never played any form of organized football. Instead, I’d written about high school gridiron action for the Sun-Times during the previous decade. Usually, I walked along the sideline and compiled statistics and quotes on a clipboard. My only physical challenge was getting sore feet while walking on hard artificial turf. Sometime during the hour-long ride, I’d rationalized that playing flag football would give me a taste of what those high school kids had experienced. I got off the train and walked a mile west to the park. The rest of the team, Quads Bears, was stretching on the grass. The Bears consisted of 18 weekend warriors; most of us were in our thirties or forties. We were in our debut season in the recreation division, which had teams sponsored by north-side bars and wore gray shirts. Just before the start of the game, I hit a snag. The belt holding the twin flags wouldn’t fit around my two shirts. A teammate shook his head while watching me struggle. "You better lose some weight if you want to play football," he said. "Okay," I said while taking off a shirt. Later in the game, I subbed at a receiver position. Because I hadn’t memorized the plays yet, I simply ran routes away from our stars to draw defenders from them. As the season progressed I became a substitute center on offense and a rushing lineman on defense, developing a more intimate relationship with the game. The man who recruited me, the starting center, showed me how to block at the position. On defense, I learned to watch the quarterback’s feet and eyes to determine whether he would pass or run, to reach close to the waist to grab flags, to hustle back to the line of scrimmage after plays, to focus after the opponent made a big offensive play, to play through fatigue...the type of lessons a mere reporter can’t fully understand. My defense against the team sponsored by Spin provided some comic relief. Its center was a Paul Bunyan-esque figure who wore a bright green jersey. He extended his arms, resembling a scarecrow, to keep me from rushing the quarterback. One of my teammates yelled "Keep hope alive!" as I wrestled with 'Bunyan.' The games took a physical toll. Usually, my arms and legs stayed sore until the following Tuesday. Slight pain in my left knee forced me to skip a game. On the other hand, flag football helped shrink my stomach. By the sixth game, I could wrap a belt around three shirts with room to spare. My teammates were hard-nosed competitors. The youngest, a whippet-thin 24-year-old, had the speed and shiftiness to turn short passes into long gains. The starting quarterback was a paunchy, white-haired 58-year-old who could launch perfect spirals. Other stalwarts included a wiry cornerback and a defensive lineman with a knack for grabbing flags. One of our best receivers was a swimmer who could outrun most of his opponents on long pass plays. The man who recruited me knocked back opponents while starting at center and served as team captain. It was a crew that routed most opponents. The passing attack generated at least 40 points in five of the eight regular season games. The defense stifled opponents until the games were well in hand. Our rushers harassed opposing quarterbacks into throwing errant passes or chased them down when they ran. The team also had a knack for grabbing interceptions and batting down passes. Our only loss before the playoffs, to Big Chicks, occurred when the starting quarterback, a top receiver, and the wiry defensive back couldn’t make the game. Big Chicks had the best looking attire in the division — blue tops decorated with gold letters. It was a skilled outfit that had played together for several years and lost in the previous championship game. It boosted a strong passing attack, led by a quarterback who resembled Father Mulcahy from television’s M*A*S*H, and separate lineups for offense and defense. Because the Bears only had eight players available, everyone played both which tired us out fairly quickly. Late in the game, I fell from exhaustion while trying to catch a pass. An opponent leaped to avoid trampling me. After the game, we comforted ourselves with the idea that the Bears would win a rematch with more depth. Injuries and absences depleted our ranks: The quarterback sat out the last two games of the regular season after injuring a leg, his replacement was a receiver slowed by a strained hamstring, our best receiver injured a foot, a reserve who’d intercepted a pass against Big Chicks pulled a calf muscle, the starting center broke a leg... Yet, we finished second in the division. Continued On Next Page (quarterback, Page 2) ... AUTHOR: Michael Marsh  TAGS: Literary Work US time attack Friends School free Television baseball BOOKMARK: Digg it | Add to Del.ICIO | Add to FARK ACTIONS: Comment Save Print Register free acount  |
