Gridder grandpa, Fall 2010

Gridder Grandpa, Fall 2010

 

The year had three seasons in 1950: baseball, football and basketball. It was a time before kids had travel teams, when Cardinal caps were worn only by real Cardinals, when the two-handed set shot was in and though the drop-kick was going out of favor, placekicks were still done with the toe.

 

My favorite thing in all of life in those years was playing baseball in the backyard, after dinner with my dad and brother. I was the pitcher and dad, choking up on the bat, tapped out flies and grounders to me and brother John, an outfielder a few paces behind, and me. 
    

Sixty years later, I am a grandpa. As I walk through my door today I notice that there is a message on my phone. I press the button and listen.

 “Papa, can you come over and play football with Mike and me bye”

It is grandson Eddie, age 6 and Mike is a play date friend. I arrive shortly and immediately begin to explain the various rules of football: the goal lines, out of bounds, four chances (called downs) to score and … I notice that their interest seems to wane so I forgo things like line of scrimmage, declaring if your kicking on fourth down (kid games only), and laterals versus the forward pass … etc.

Even so Ed interrupts my abbreviated explanations and calls out the teams, “Mike and me against you and Johnny.”

“OK we’ll kickoff,” I announce.

Johnny (age 4) is standing at my side protesting with some words, but mostly screams. I think he wants to hold the ball so I address him directly, “We’re kicking off, John, OK you kick, and I’ll hold it.” The yelps continue so I surmise that that wasn’t the issue. Finally I relent, “OK you hold,” I say, “I’ll kick.” This should be good, I think. 

 

I give John the ball to hold for my kick. He immediately takes off running, dashing about like “Wrong-way-Corrigan.”
 

“Hey, John! Where are you going? We have to kick,” I shout as Ed and Mike take up the chase. Well this, ... it’s like football, I reason.

“Hey! You guys,” I yell. This doesn’t stop them, but the four-year-old trying to elude two six-year-olds is doomed. Brother Ed soon wrestles John to the ground, trying to grab the ball. Johnny resists, screams some more and manages to heave the ball onto the neighbor’s yard.

“OK, OK” I say, trying to restore order. 

I go retrieve the ball.

Eventually a "game" gets going. It’s now me alone against Mike and Ed. Johnny has quit. He is sitting on the swing set which is fine with me.

Ed and Mike are both first graders. I'm a retired teacher. Age 70. 

It is a little surprising, the effort that I must put forth to tag them. Though the game has been ruled two-hand touch, neither Ed nor Mike stops running when I touch them with both hands. They don't even bother to claim "one hand" when I do tag them. Instead they just continue on, tear away, race the length of the field, and shout “touchdown,” raising their arms in celebration. 

Fine.  I change from touch to grab and hold.

I score touchdowns too, but don’t celebrate. I am, however, much pleased with my ability to dodge these just beyond toddler characters –  age six -  and am not the least bit self-conscious that in the end I win the game, something like 30-24, by my count, which I keep track of in my head, but out of modesty don’t broadcast. My victory, may I say, was mainly the result of quite impressive swivel-hip running on my part, against the obviously out-classed six-year-olds. I know my adversaries are only six, but the swivel-hipping was enough to get me thinking about that nineteen yard run I had against Lafayette College, fifty years ago - when I was out in the open, why didn’t I do a swivel-hip then? Doubtless I was even better at it then and so I think about it sadly now, that perhaps I could have gone all the way on that November day in 1961.  

Back to reality - I am especially fond of Mike’s compliment on my performance. He offers it in a tone of what I feel is genuine reverence. I quote: “You’re really great!” is what he says, and more than once, starting after my third touchdown run. I secretly hope that he tells his mom, who I secretly have a crush on, albeit thirty, or more, years my junior. 

 

The next day I literally, cannot walk one step. Baker’s cyst it is called. I looked it up online. It’s a major flare-up and it feels like a golf ball size knot behind each knee.