Bill’s Song
We watched film last night at Coach Dion Price’s place of our final regular-season game: a nail-biter in which the Lions fell less than a foot short of tying the game with a field goal as time expired. And with the clock stoppage, the expiration of our season in a 30-27 loss to the Indianapolis Sabers. Still we’re alive for the playoffs (beginning October 7th in Attica), and the lads mounted an impressive two-touchdown comeback in the fourth quarter. Today, the local paper even gave us some pub.
I must say that I look fatter and balder on film than I do in my mind’s eye. But it’s given me plans for the off season. A few weeks ago I began working out under the guidance of teammate Mike Woodard, a former Boilermaker player who does double duty on our team as a hard-hitting defensive back and a hard-charging running back. In our three-a-week workouts we hit shoulders and chest on Sunday, hammer the legs and abs on Tuesday, and on Thursdays we shave my body hair, oil up, and practice posing. Mike calls me Will, which has never been my name, but it seems to be a motivational technique.
Last Saturday, because we fell behind early and spent the evening playing catch-up against the Sabers in the rain, I didn’t get any offensive action. On special teams, however, I was lucky enough to flatten some poor bastard who didn’t see me coming on a kickoff. But it may have been him (hell-bent on revenge) who caught me shortly thereafter in what seemed like a clip, felt like whiplash in my neck, and sent my helmet flying. Sadly, the film caught neither of those images.
The film did catch “The Play” of my semi-professional career. I figure I could spill about 10,000 blog words (like an Eskimo describing all the variants of snow) on it, but I’ll save that long wind for the book. Down 30 to 20 with time running out, we needed an on-side’s kick recovery to have any hope of getting back in the game. Coach told us to stack our line and have the first four guys simply “knock someone’s dick in the dirt.” I thought that would be in poor taste, so I simply ran down and jumped on a ball that one or two of their guys fumbled. Beneath the pile, with Sabers clawing at my eyes, chewing on my hamstrings, and doing unspeakable things to what I’d rather not have anywhere near the dirt, I was just yelling, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
I arose from that pile, tossed the ball to one of the late-arriving referees (I think they were smoking pot in the parking lot before the game), and gave a black power salute to my friends and family in the stands. My lady friend almost wept. For a minute, I felt a little like the autistic kid who hit all those three-pointers. And later, as the skies unleashed a mighty rain upon us, even the Fighting Irish came back and beat Michigan State in a stunning victory. The love of Jesus filled this Lion’s heart and I slept peacefully without having to get too drunk.
I’ve been away from the blog. My apologies to those of you who set your clock by it. I decided I needed to get away from my suck-ass job, so I spent two weeks in Florida working on my beer gut and sand angels. I may have gained eight pounds in fruity drinks and fresh shrimp. All to my hips! The beaches stunk with whatever Ernesto drudged up from the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, but the inactivity was pretty cool.