Well hey there kiddos, glad to see you’re still reading on them intenets. Why does my dad not understand the internet, or dvr, or even how to properly wash clothes without getting bleach stains all over them? Dads are cool, except mine, he is a goofy goober who wears long socks and can usually be seen with a hat that the late, great Steve Irwin would wear. My parents came up on Sunday to watch me play football, and you know what, they’re pretty neat. Love you guys.
- RED SQUAAAAAAAD
Before there were parents, there was the red squad. Some say the red squad was founded long ago, before the age of Emperor Raeburn, but no one knows for sure anymore. Actually, no one knows anything on the football team because we’re never told more than we need to know. And as long as we keep getting a healthy serving of rigorous groin stretching at 4:20 pm I’m not complaining. As I was saying, The Red Squad is essentially the oil that keeps the beautiful motor of the Little Giants running smooth on Saturdays. Ask any Red Squad member, and just like a knowledgable mechanic they’ll tell ya all the ins n outs of the fixins and doohickeys that we work on all week to help prepare for game day. Well, after getting whupped on by the big boys for 3 straight weeks this Red Squad member was excited when he learned we would be playing a real football game this past Sunday. Chris Berman always say that only professionals play on Sunday, and if you were in attendance for the display that took place you would probably agree.
Except it was better than pro football: It was a perfect September Day in Indiana, (which always beats the hell out of any day in Cleveland, or Cincinnati for that matter) there was a wholesome family atmosphere with a lot of love being radiated from the stands, (which you don’t get if you’re in Pittsburg) there were no silly commercial breaks in between every change of possession, and we didn’t have any special teams. That’s right folks, they took the foot out of football, and I gotta say, it might be the greatest thing to happen to our beloved sport since John Madden was taken out of the broadcasting booth.
I don’t remember the score, sorry, if you want to know you probably should’ve been there. I know that our offense performed beautifully- like Natalie Portman beautiful- and our defense was so ferocious it could’ve given a mama grizzly bear rabies. Coach Najar was making calls that were years ahead of his time as a young defensive coordinator, which led to this.
I was in at Safety. I had just waved HI to my mom in the stands. She blew me a kiss, but I didn’t blow back, it was the middle of the game, so I stored it my girdle for later. Anyways, mastermind Najar was at it again; he made a call that put me in the right place at the right time and I wound up getting an interception. Now it’s not often that I do things right, so this was pretty exciting. I realized that since I now held the ball I was to run towards the end zone, except there was a big fat dude (lineman) in the way. I thought, “Juke him Carl.” then I remembered I didn’t have any juke moves. So I did my best reenactment of Bobby Boucher, from Adam Sandler’s masterpiece The Waterboy, and hit that guy’s face with my face as hard as I could. Now, the NFL advises against this, but I say they’re a bunch of sissies (not you Ray Lewis, we cool). I felt that guy fall off my body and I realized that there was no one else in my way of scoring my first touchdown since sixth grade! I was happier than a clam. Hell, I was happier than one of those cracked out, nut hoarding squirrels that run rampant around the bases of all the trees on Wabash’s campus. Come to think of it, I probably looked very similar to those bushy tailed minibeavers in the immediate moments after my crossing the plane of the goal line.
I didn’t care that there was an offsides penalty by an unnamed and very apologetic linebacker friend of mine that negated the whole thing. The moral of this story is, football is fun.
Hope y’all enjoyed this brief memoir, I promise next blog will cover more topics.