I'm a soccer fan. And I'm a football (American style) fan too. The two worlds rarely cross - the games are so dissimilar. Soccer is about finesse and continuous flow; American football is about power, intensity, and the moment.
The soccer fan in me cringes every time I see a soccer player fling himself (and lately, herself) to the turf, writhing in agony after the slightest whiff of contact in either: 1. an effort to sway the referee to award the opponents a foul, 2. genuine lack of pain tolerance, 3. lack of manliness, 4. all of the above. I'd complain to pro-soccer/anti-American-football types that "you'd NEVER see an American football player do that, ... it simply wouldn't be accepted by fans, coaches, or teammates".
Wrong.
If you saw this evenings Arizona v. San Francisco game, particularly the third quarter, you may have seen a play where Larry Fitzgerald went over the middle to haul down a short pass for a couple of yards. There's not much that's more manly that going over the middle to catch a short pass, knowing that a corner or a linebacker is waiting to lay a world of hurt on you. Sure enough, Larry was tackled (nothing all that hard, just a solid tackle). As the tackler got up, he stuck his hand out to push against Larry's shoulder pads (Fitzgerald was starting to sit up). You'd have thought Larry was shot in the head the way he flung his arms up in the air and threw his body back down on the ground. And, sure enough, the back judge, not schooled by years refereeing the #### that too often reveal themselves in a soccer match, threw a flag for unsportsmanlike conduct on the Forty-Niner.
Not a big deal? Probably not. But it might be. Here's hoping the Cardinal's coaching staff, the Cardinal's team, and the NFL make a point of noting Dame Fitzgerald's moment of disgrace and call it what it was: behavior totally unacceptable on an American football field where sweat, toughness, and unbelievable mental control over pain are and must continue to be the norm. Rather, it was behavior totally characteristic of the anti-American-football player: the guy wearing cute little shorts, metrosexual haircuts, and the pain tolerance and general pussiness of so many professional soccer players.
Here's hoping he's called out for his pathetic behavior. It's already an uphill battle for soccer - where many fans hate this behavior, but have been unable to affect change to remove this disgrace from the World's Game. End it NOW, NFL, nip this mother #*$&er right in the bud.
I suspect many of us who witnessed it will agree with John
Madden's statement that Darrell Reid'#### during the late game kick
return on Chris Henry was maybe the most vicious hit we've ever seen.
At the moment of impact, I thought we'd witnessed another severe injury - not expecting to see the kick returner get up. Fortunately, not only did he get up - he got up rather quickly and trotted off (yes, ... to the correct sideline).
However, we dodged another bullet with this hit. And it was preventable. At the last moment, immediately before the impending impact,the
288 pound defensive lineman running at fult tilt towards the oncoming
kick returner lowered his head and drove it into the returners helmet. Henry's head, and entire body, immediately and quite
forcefully changed direction - slamming backwards into the turf with
Reid continuing through and over him as he sprawled out.
Awesome
and frightening at the same time. Yet no penalty. Further, Reid - on
the Pro Bowl roster as a special teams squad player - seemed to
celebrate the fact he'd clobbered the guy with the top of his head by
prancing around and pointing to the top of his helmet.
I'm a passionate Colts fan.
But this hit was deserving of a league fine. And we all should be glad
we're not dealing with a severe neurological or spinal injury-related
tragedy this morning. Serious injuries can happen during normal
plays in the NFL. But plays like this are preventable - and should be
punished heavily as a disincentive to any and all who might consider
lowering their head in such a manner again.
Six feet tall and 150 pounds of confused muscle and rock hard brains, I crouched down into my three point stance opposite six foot two, 230 pound left tackle Dennis Brouhard in our first full contact reserve scrimmage. In what I now recognize as a combination of manic homicide and a profoundly funny joke, Coach Pesavento had judged me to be a perfect specimen of a defensive end. And here came the punch line, in the form of "27 offtackle, FB lead".
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I'd never played organized football in my life to that point. Other than the previous ten days of three-a-day practices, I'd never worn pads, had never experienced the raunch of a team locker room, ... had never been so profoundly tired in my life.
Throughout latter elementary school and junior high school, the old neighborhood buddies would play tackle football, usually on Mr. Munshower's huge front lawn, for hours at a time. Some were strong athletes, many of us weren't. One went on to start for two years as a cornerback for the Wisconsin Badgers. Strong athlete or not, in the neighborhood, you played hard yet stopped short of cleaning a guys clock - no one wanted to hurt or scare off anyone. We needed the dudes.
I wasn't a total loser; ... I was FAST. I could outrun anybody. I was the fastest guy in the neighborhood and, now, the fastest guy on the team. Yet I was a pathetically lanky lightweight, clueless as to proper blocking & tackling (or any other football related) techniques. All I was, was fast.
Add to that the fact my family had changed school districts in the summer prior to my freshman year. These guys on the football team were the first people I'd met in our new location. None of them seemed terribly interested in tolerating a new glasses wearing splinter who didn't know where to put his hip pads. But I was terribly desperate to learn to play the game, to be a part of a real football team, to show that I had the ability to play the game. I just needed some serious learning. It's amazing what kids can tolerate when motivated; in retrospect, I now realize it was painfully, painfully lonely. But I also know that loneliness didn't seem to matter much to me - it was never hard to climb into the car to go to another practice. I loved the idea of playing football that much.
Coach Pesavento ("Pez" of course, but never ... NEVER within earshot, as Brouhard found out later that season) was not much into teaching. What he was, was into yelling. And almost never by a persons proper name. Early on, he adopted for me the proud name "Stooge" - after a particularly badly blown play during an early practice where the quarterback saw fit to throw the ball so it got stuck in my facemask. Pez used language not much recognized these days for its educational potential. "G*d d@mn it, Stooge, what the #### kinda joker are you, ... you ever hit a sled before?" NO, ... I had never hit a blocking sled before. Despite the fact I had exceptionally strong legs, it was only after a week of three-a-days flopping myself against the sled that our starting halfback kindly showed me how to properly hit the sled - with my shoulder, lowering my back and butt, and driving forward with my legs - that what had become the comic interlude in sled drills stopped. The road to acceptance on the team was going to be longer than I'd hoped. But I was going to do whatever I could to make it.
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So, ... it's "27 offtackle, FB lead"; but I don't know it yet. "Ready, ... set, ... B1, ... B2" and the ball was snapped. I did my best to drive into the massive offensive tackle and then move around him to my right to seal off the left side of the line. Dennis had other ideas. At least that's what I gathered after about ten seconds. I remember a blur, a bunch of greyness, grass, a loud rumbling sound, a louder whistle, and then quiet. ... nothing.
It was only about four seconds, maybe five, but it seemed to be a much longer period of time. I had no sensation of playing football, of being anywhere, I just WAS. Then the unmistakable shrill shriek of Pez cut partially through the greyness: "Moose (Brouhard), what the #### are you doing?" Then arms under my shoulders - they were Dave Palmer's, our best halfback - he pulled me up, looked at me and asked "alright?".
I just stared, at the time, I couldn't comprehend what he'd said; he clearly took this blank stare as "yep, I'm fine, let's go" as he turned and trotted to his offensive huddle. Brouhard was walking back to the huddle too, just shaking his head. Pez was staring at the Stooge, no look of sympathy, just staring at me. I learned only in the locker room after practice that Moose had hit me so hard I'd flown backwards a couple of yards and landed on my head. It was so violent that some players had stopped mid-play, prior to the whistle. Yet somehow, Palmer, the ball carrier, had tripped over the tangle of arms and legs that was me on the ground. I'D GOTTEN THE TACKLE, despite my semi-conscious and inanimate state. All thanks to Brouhard. Fortunately, they ran plays to the other side of the line for the next several plays, and then put another tackle in place of Brouhard. While at the time I didn't know exactly what had happened, I knew from the laughs and looks of disdain that it couldn't have been flattering.
Embarrassment is a powerful motivator. The Stooge kept rushing with reckless, underpowered, and unskilled abandon. Within a couple of plays they called a screen pass in my direction. Of course, they let the less-than-massive defensive end into the backfield, and then the starting QB tossed a screen pass high over my head towards Dave Palmer, who had streaked by me to the left flat. Wait a second! This is right up my alley, and UP I jumped. I know I mentioned I was fast. But I could jump too. I was dunking a volleyball (couldn't yet palm a basketball) in eighth grade, ... anyways ... Up I went ... please Lord, ... I can get this. SMACK! I hit the ball up ... it's sailing straight in front of me ... I can get this, ... I GOT this! I catch the ball and NO ONE was gonna catch me, ... 25 yards to paydirt and six points. I'm nearly as numb as I was after Brouhard'####. I just turned and stood in the end zone for a moment, and waited - for what I wasn't sure.
Nobody was rushing towards me, other than the QB who seemed intent on hitting me despite the fact I was in the end zone and the whistle had blown (he ran past me, in a show of some discipline, as I was sure he was horribly embarrassed to have been intercepted by such a joke of a player). So I just trotted back to where the players were. They were looking at me much the same way they did after Brouhard's shotput of me just a half a dozen plays earlier.
Pez finally broke the ice,"Nice play, Stooge". ... thanks, coach.
I didn't play the next series, and when I finally played again, it was as wide receiver. I didn't have any balls thrown my way, but it was a statement that registered with me and my teammates. Guys started talking to me a little, more like they were including me in conversations rather than talking directly to me. And I'm getting called by my real name, not Stooge. I got more advice from teammates regarding blocking and tackling. The coach moved me from back-up defensive end to safety. I liked the position, although I had a lot to learn about coverages - and I learned from my teammates and from the various yellings of Pez ("Stooge, what the #### are you doing covering the wideout on that play?, your man was either the wingback or doubling up on the f#cking halfback out of the backfield - get your f#cking head outta your ####!", ... yep, he likes me).
I was never good enough to start a game at wide receiver or safety that season. And he stuck me in at defensive end every once in awhile just for giggles I guess. But I got better, and played more and more as the season progressed. I learned that you gain some measure of respect when others see you trying hard, working through obstacles and persevering. I never became a good HS football player, and I never ran around with many of the strong players on that team - although my best friend to this day was a guy I met that first summer of organized football. But I had the respect of most of those guys. It felt great to be included, to laugh as one of them after coach lifted Moose up by his neck with one hand when he called Pez "Pez" to his face (instead of "hey coach", ... to Moose's terror, out came "hey Pez").
This is the point where the author is supposed to say "these were the life lessons of sports that propelled me to become U.S. Senator" or "CEO of Boeing" or "Ambassador to France" or whatever ... Nahhh. Just Dave in Indy, writing in a sports blog to a handful of readers. Nonetheless, I came to love football even more as a result of this experience. And I DID gain great life lessons that I suspect I never would have otherwise picked-up, at least not so early in my life.
Nothing profound, ... just a memory I thought I'd share.
It's being reported this morning (by WGCL TV out of Atlanta, GA) "federal prosecutors are offering Falcons quarterback Michael Vick a plea deal on dogfighting charges that would require Vick to serve at least one year in prison. Sources have told CBS 46 that Vick has until 9 a.m. Friday to accept a deal or face new charges in a superseding indictment".
What is our fascination with sending people to prison? In what way has that been shown to be the best method of preventing a person from repeating their crime, or to discourage others to not engage in such behavior?
Per capita crime in the U.S. has increased only marginally over the past several decades. Yet our incarceration rates have skyrocketed over the same period, putting us in the ugly position of leading the world in per capita incarcerations. We have five to ten times as many inmates per citizen as most other developed countries around the world.
WTF?
The greatest nation on the face of the earth? We incarcerate more than 5.6 million of our citizens (# of citizens who have been incarcerated at some point during a given year)? That's an incarceration rate of one in thirty-seven (about 3% of our adult population). And this rate has been streaking upwards for several decades. Our prisons are estimated to be constructed to handle just over one-half of that number. The over-crowding conditions are making prisons no better than the gulags of the old Soviet Union, where basic human standards of care are not being met - let alone efforts to genuinely rehabilitate offenders.
THIS IS A NATIONAL DISGRACE, one that we the people perpetuate.
Prosecutors get elected to lucrative local offices based largely upon their ability to market their "toughness on crime" - which almost always means their conviction rate and their ability to boast of long sentences for cases they've prosecuted. Judges, in many locales, are elected in much the same way. That's what the electorate want to hear, that criminals are being put into jail, and often.
And now folks are likely feeling good that Michael Vick faces more than a trivial stint in jail.
What is this INCREDIBLE investment in one method of punishment/rehab buying us? Little if anything that I can see. From 1987 to 1995, state government expenditures on prisons increased by 30% while spending on higher education decreased by 18%. Worse, it may well be hardening criminals - moving them to a point where a life of crime is all that seems feasible for them. Even WORSE, it may be moving us further from a nation deserving of respect, and to a nation characterized by shallowness, impulsiveness, a convenient blindness to the suffering of others.
Just one more thing deserving of your increased attention and action (at the very least, pay attention to who you elect to the offices of Prosecutor and Judge - typically Superior Court Judge, although ANY elected judge - and see what your mayoral and gubernatorial candidates track records are on this issue too).
How will sending Vick to prison help society? How will it impact Vick? How does sentencing marijuana smokers, or vandals, etc. to stout prison terms help society or impact the violators? Is yours a gut reaction to those questions, or a decently well thought out response, based on a review of available literature?
With Tarik Glenn expected to announce his (early) retirement shortly, the Colts outlook for the season just acquired another shadow. And somewhere near Boston, "the sweatshirt" just got a little less surly.
First, they lose a half dozen key defensive contributors from the playoff awakening defense of last year. They lose their key slot receiver Brandon Stokley. They lose their starting running back Dominic Rhodes (in fairness, he was always viewed as the back-up back - even though he started). And now Glenn. Peyton's key protector, the guy who is charged with preventing blind-side bulldozing of the Colts messiah; a ten-year veteran at a position that takes at least two years to get in-synch with your teammates - and one of the best in the league at this most difficult position (left O.T.).
Although I hope fervently for a different outcome, you may want to set your Tivo's for this coming Saturday night's SNL. It promises to be a train wreck of mythic proportion. Peyton Manning will be guest host. ... yes ... Peyton Manning.
Peyton Manning hosting a comedy show? Peyton Manning in LIVE comedy skits? This will almost surely be as painful as the Chris Evert "event" on SNL. Sure, athletes can make good hosts - Andrew Roddick was GREAT. But it's very rare that they do more than slide through (or worse).
The writers most definitely have their hands full this week. Hopefully it will be loaded with sel####eprecating stuff - that's about all he'll be able to pull off (bedroom scene with frenetic audibles, and maybe a cameo from Tom Moore). Maybe he'll revive Will Ferrell's "man who can't modulate his voice" character. I'm sure there will be lame stuff featuring his appearance in nearly 1/4 of all advertisements that run during an NFL game.
