Our long season came to a dismal final end on Saturday with a 14-3 loss to the Michiana Titans. Disappointing to say the least, especially given the fact that we’d beaten this team 31-0 in the season opener. But with turnabout being fair play and our turnovers falling in abundance (anyone counting them on his digits would have used two full hands and gone to his zipper for at least one other) the Lions really gave this one away.
For their part the Titans, who didn’t field more than 20 guys, took care of the pigskin and had some success on draws, while a fairly mobile quarterback kept out of harm’s way. Plus, their two-way players picked up several balls dropped and a few thrown. Our defense stood tough as always, but we couldn’t overcome double-digit turnovers, which oddly enough sounds like a MacDonald’s treat for cannibals. “Umm, double-digit turnovers. It’s got twice the fingers!”
With the abrupt end, I’ve stewed for about a day and half, trying to make sense of the season. I’m sure my father, who in his 82nd year watched me play a couple of weeks ago as a rookie in my 41st, would look for some sort of numerical perspective. He’s quite the number cruncher. In the 1970s, he remembered our phone number by reciting, “He rose at 8 and took 465 to get to work by 9:20.” I don’t know what slack boss would let you roll in at 9:20, but I should probably be working there.
Another time, my dad came up with an equation that measured his loves and losses in palindromes. “I lost my mother at 11 and met your mother at 22,” he told me. “We spent 44 years together, which took me to 66. And if I live to be 88, which I hope to hell I don’t, that means I’ll have spent half my life without her.”
I suppose I could look to the numbers when scanning our season for meaning. If you count the preseason win and the post-season loss, we ended up an even five and five—our good and bad times divided equally in half. Personally, I was proudest to be a Lion after two losses (to Kankakee and Indianapolis), when we rallied together only to fall just short in both comebacks.
I could also go to the roster on the Lions link to look at the names of the men I played with. Of those 50-plus players, we lost a handful to injuries while a baker’s dozen quit along the way. Our head coach left after the season’s third game. But there’s some real symmetry on both sides of the ball. Two offensive-minded brothers from “the region,” who off the field work in emergency and medical fields, were never short on advice or wisecracks. Two defensive brothers straight off the farm hit like they were harvesting pain. And a father and son team fired off on the defensive line with forearm shivers late into the season. You can still almost hear the younger man’s children screaming in Attica, “Rip his head off, Grandpa!”
Otherwise I spent some time with some really good former division one athletes, a few of whom even spent some time in the NFL. One of the world’s strongest men (really, he’s going to Africa to compete with others for the title) paved running paths on from his position on the offensive line. Some kids barely out of high school seemed like they could sprint for days from various gunner positions. And a big man named Boogie told me not to chase to the outside when blocking on points after touchdowns.
In practice I dreaded a “nine route” that put me directly in the path of some happy-hitting veteran linebackers. I learned the passing tree (most of it) from a guy who ran routes perfectly. But the only thing thrown my way all year was a number 13 jersey misfired in the locker room after the last game. Early on though, I made my first tackle in pads since the late 1970s on the young man who’s trying to get me in shape for next season.
Who knows if there will be a next year? I was too old, slow, and well-mannered for this semi-pro business seven years ago. I’d be wise to make a memory of it now. Save my hamstrings for jogging and less violent, more leisurely diversions. I’ve never been too wounded working with words. I don’t have any grandchildren (though it’s a numerical possibility had I been more popular in high school), but I suppose I could tell them one day about an on-sides’ kick recovery I had that kept us alive against the Sabers. Oh, I can build on that one for years.
Really I’m just grateful on having survived the season that dates back to the week before Memorial Day, when field-turf scrapes quickly turned to ankle sprains and hamstring aches. Either I’m lucky, or someone up there does indeed like me. Even as a lapsed Catholic, I wasn’t above an occasional sign of the cross before a kickoff or a tug at the St. Jude medal around my neck and beneath my pads. The patron saint of lost causes and possibly improbable dreams, St. Jude may have kept my spine in place. A good doctor in Indianapolis helped heal my hammies, which he likened in stiffness to oak trees, and I’m hoping that I may find my wind somewhere along a running path in the off season. So watch out for next year. Because if I return—God, legs, and coaching staff willing—I’m getting defensive.
Thanks to everyone—be you teammate, reader, family member, or friend—who’s endured my egocentric stint into immersion journalism. As a writer I’m usually more of a bleeder than a blogger, so I appreciate everyone who’s had to stumble through these “mind fields.” As this rush of words stops one shy of 1,000, the blog stops here.
Even the best-laid plans of bloggers and breakfast clubbers often go awry. Weary as I was from Friday’s festivities, I still dragged my carcass out from under a cave of blankets to join nieces and siblings for an early morning drinking opportunity before the Purdue-Penn State game. I fully planned on going to a new pub called O’Bryan’s Nine Irish Brothers to watch the Irish at noon. Seems like a reasonable option. 