The Human Sickle

Sunday afternoons while addled and hung-over from Saturday night's excesses we played pick up games of full contact football without any protective gear. This was when I was in my mid-teens and had earned the nickname "The Clothes Line" for my sweeping sickle of a forearm aimed at my opponent's throat. I took down ball runners left and right.

I was not the only one with a nickname on those Vince Lombardi gone to seed days. There was also "Mushly" a diminutive player who was often given the ball to run with because he was squirmy and cartoon logic had us convinced that due to his size he could slip right through an opponent's legs. Also on the playing field were two brothers who were known as "Horse Man" and "Pony Boy." The latter had the build of a Budweiser Clydesdale and when he ran it was easy to see him as galloping. The former was far more gentle and had all the cute makings of a little girl's desire for her very own pony.

We played without cheer-leaders or audiences and usually downed hair of the dog libations while attending to our grid iron duties. It was not unusual for someone to call time out to refresh himself with another beer. We had after all our priorities.

Our playing field was in a neighborhood park and the end zones of it were marked by articles of clothing, for instance someone's balled up shirt. Side lines were where we left our six-packs of beer. There were also no goal posts or after touchdown kicks for extra points. Our games were strictly touchdown affairs. The only kicking involved was when we punted for kickoffs and also on fourth downs when a team failed to move the ball an estimated ten yards in the span of three plays. No matter what the reason for a punt however it engendered in both teams rebel yells and hearty tackles of the poor slob running with the ball.

In our subsequent huddles we'd occasionally smoke a joint, swig down some beer, and declare all out mayhem on a player we'd momentarily come to despise. The huddles following one of my particularly vicious clothes lines usually rallied the opposing team into a vehement unit who'd issue an all out call for blood. There was a price to pay for being the human sickle.

Lacking whistles and flags and impartial judgment we self officiated with the loudest yelling team most often winning the argument on how to call a questionable play. More often than not hotly contested calls led to ever more vicious tackles in subsequent plays.

There was also no official time for how long a game lasted. Usually we'd call it quits when the beer ran out. By then most of us would be sporting fresh lumps, cuts, and bruises. We'd limp off the field and go our separate ways all the while nursing thoughts of the havoc and revenge we would reap in the game on the following Sunday.