Tackle Football

Did you ever play the game Kick-Your-Brother-Over-a-Cliff? Neither did I, but I relished the image many a time, especially on those occasions when he laid me flat on my stomach in the mud with his legendary Brower Body Slam.
My brother, Tim, was a hefty guy, shoulders as wide as my wing-span, a neck like a steal pylon and calves a rhinoceros would envy. He could bench-press one-eighty before we were out of elementary school. Tim’s handshake was firm and his posture impeccable, the kind of lad grandparents and authority figures call “a fine young man”.
I preferred books and collections of crossword puzzles to vigorous physical activity. My seat was in the ambiguous middle of the classroom, the focus of no one’s attention. I remembered to floss and my socks always matched, but an A in history forever eluded me.
My brother dragged me along to many places I didn’t want to be, a matching accessory to his outfit. My tag line was, “This is my brother, Greg. He’s a funny guy. You’ll love him.” They rarely “loved” me.
To my extreme displeasure, I was always the “one more guy” when the neighborhood kids played football. Andy, who lived at the corner of the street, had an expansive backyard. His parents were minimalists and Andy’s yard was free of cluttering items like trees and grass. When it rained, the dusty strip evolved into a soggy mudpie. Tim and the guys thought this was the best time for playing tackle football. I always cast a hopeful vote for touch football, only to be repeatedly outvoted.
Everyone but Tim knew when we played, I was as helpful to a team as malaria, but I was never the last one picked. When Tim was captain, I was first round draft. The other captains would survey the group, eyes lingering on one guy, then another, making them squirm and plead. Pick me. I’m the best. Tim was different. He focused immediately on who he wanted for his team. Before his mouth said anything, his eyes beckoned. You’re the one I want, they said. When his eyes locked on me, I tried to send a message back. I don’t want to play. I hate this game. Send me home. Tim smiled and announced, “I pick Greg.” Tim’s filial fondness did not extend to any bruisable part of my body.
The last kid to be picked was Aaron. Aaron was shorter than me, but stocky and solid. His lip curled when he smiled, revealing slightly yellow teeth. He was the first in the neighborhood to grow a moustache and spit more than a sick camel. His father was a retired car salesman and worked part time at the gas station down the street. Aaron loved cherry candy and his dad would bring home crinkly cellophane bags of blood-red candies. Aaron kept a bag in his pocket, along with his inhaler and a rabbit’s foot. The pocket of his jeans bulged like an untreated tumor, and he crinkled when he walked. Because of his cherry habit Aaron’s spit was pink. The other kids laughed at this, saying Aaron must be a girl because he spit girly colors. When Aaron played football, he threw everything into his tackles. He launched his entire body like a shotput, Viking war cries mangling the air. He never forgot to hit me a little harder than the rest.
In the fall, football games began at 4:30 in the afternoon on the briskest days. These were tolerable, lasting only until it was too dark to see plays. In the summer games were tortuous nightmares, beginning anywhere from 3:00 to high noon. During these days I felt like King Sisyphus, forced to perform the same grueling task for all eternity. Form up, hike, run, impact, fall down, stand up, spit dirt, repeat. Sometimes the games would end early due to injury—mostly mine.
The football was my bane; the equivalent of painting a large red target on my forehead. Whenever some numbskull passed the caked pig-skin to me, I held it tightly to my chest like a schoolgirl holds a bible and ran blindly, not always toward my team’s goal line.
The first time I ever scored a touchdown surprised everyone, me most of all. The blue sky and wavy lines of heat clearly indicated summer. I was slow roasting in the sun. The guys were covered in grit, sweat and dried blood. In the huddle, I caught a whiff of Andy’s armpit and nearly lost consciousness. Andy’s family didn’t believe in superfluous things like deodorant. Everyone moved like the world was a bowl of pudding, their breath staccato puffs. The game was nearly over.
We formed up, butts pointed to heaven. Andy grunted something unintelligible and we were scrambling, Tim with the ball. I noticed boys falling around me, felled by a tackler. It was the Normandy of football. Tim was being dragged to the dirt, the football gripped tightly under one arm. Suddenly, the ball popped out, a champagne bottle cork flying through the air. I didn’t think. I caught the ball. Adrenaline surged through me, rocketing me toward the goal line. My legs were gone. I was conveyed by wind, the mad breath of boys inches behind me. They reached for me, but I was determined to fly. I made it, breathless and dizzy, collapsing to my knees safely over the goal line. My teammates were stunned, the opposition was horrified and Tim was glowing.
We didn’t win that game, but on the way home Tim said, “Great game today, Greg,” and put his arm over my shoulder. For once, I almost agreed with him.