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Warning. This entry contains descriptions of sport related violence and photographs containing blood. Mainly mine, but not all of it. And since I don't update often, it's really long so you can read it in parts.

My parents did not approve of sports. Raised in poor areas, with overbearing, uneducated parents, my parents had short, unsuccessful brushes with college; and, as some people still do today, negative experiences with student athletes. This carried over to adulthood, where I was given the ol' "professional athletes make too much money, are worthless, etc." speech whenever the subject came up.

I was allowed to run cross country, and probably could have done other stuff; but with no encourage and my mistaken idea that if I was an artist I couldn't be an athlete, I did not discover the true joy of the glorious game of American football until I was 19. Sure, I played a little pick-up, but it wasn't until I was 19 until I started watching NFL games and joined a semi-pro football team.

I only played off and on for three years, then art took over again and I moved to go to school. However, now those local, pick-up, no pad tackle games became a focus, a treat. We usually played 5 on 5, up to about 8 on 8, two completions for a first down, immediate rush. We played in the fall, until about February, and in one glorious stretch we played once a week for 18 months straight.

I played every position but defensive back. I could throw for short distances very accurately; read defenses like a scholar; I can run routes like a motherfucker; I can catch and have a world-class stiff-arm. Cut at full speed. Surprisingly quick for my size.

If you're unclear on any of these terms, feel free to ask. Oh, and my change of tense? I can't really throw anymore, after busting up my shoulder by wrecking it against other humans. The rest I can still do.

All that offense talk is misleading, because what I do best is hit people. I'm a natural linebacker. Size, quick within a small area. I can cover slower guys, I'm not afraid to mix it up, and I have a talent some of the best professional tacklers have; timing.

Tackling someone is form, practice, technique. Getting in position to tackle someone is innate, nearly untrainable. Ever watch your favorite defensive player just miss a guy or slide off someone because they hit him at an odd angle? It's all angles. Anticipation. Timing.

I once hit a guy so hard from the side he changed direction 90 degrees. I once hit a guy so hard he literally flipped upside down. Since the middle of most fields are bowed (for water runoff) and it happened on the far side of the field, my teammates said all they saw was his feet, straight up in the air, sliding over the horizon, out of sight. I hit that guy so hard I apologized to him after the game. But I'm still proud of the hit.

Don't worry, I've been hit hard more than once. But never as hard as I've hit others. Too violent, you say? I've thrown less than 10 real punches in my life. Probably less than 5. But I've made people quit on the football field. I've sent more than one to the hospital for stitches.

When I moved I found new groups. I was never injured very badly, but as I grew older, they did start catching up with me. Guy rammed sideways into my knee when I was about 23. Walked with a limp for about 4 months, messing up the other knee from the stress. Pulled a hamstring, finally, in my early 30s. Got pulled over on my back once, bruising up some ribs for a week or two.

Let me clarify my use of the word bruise. When I mention a bruise, it means it really fucked me up. Me listing every little bruise from this sport would be like you remembering every single time you've jerked off. As I'm typing this I have a baseball sized bruise on my left oblique, a golf ball sized bruise on one shoulder, and someone's thumb-sized bruise on my right bicep; I just found the baseball one today, while I was showering. It happened on Thanksgiving, but I couldn't tell you how.

I have misshapen pinky fingers, done at different times.

Over the last few years, I can't find many games anymore. Maybe I don't look as hard. But, one American tradition remains and that is Thanksgiving football.

At this point it is my only remaining fix for tackle football. My friends know it, some ask about it. Anyone that knows me, know I work out for only two reasons: to eat like shit, and to play football on Thanksgiving. Nowadays, some women have been sucked into the vanity of dating skinny, femme men, who love puppies, wear black, diet like they do, and vote green: perhaps in revenge for the pressure we put on women to be skinny. Good for them; but even the motivation to get laid doesn't have the draw for me to exercise like bad food and football does. Yes, I guess I'm a fat, violent, Neanderthal: wanna fuck?

Anyway, I'm 42 years old in January and I figure I have at least nine more games to go. 364 days of drawing, painting, designing and playing me some Dungeons and Dragons, are only placeholders for 1 day a year where I get to wreck folks.

Last Thanksgiving I collided heads with this idiot who wasn't looking were he was going. He is one of the aforementioned guys that got to go to the hospital. Stitches from me and a badly sprained ankle from me and the guy that hit him from behind at the same time. I returned an interception for a touchdown in that game, dragging/pushing off the one guy that had a shot of tackling me. Ripped out of my own shirt pulling away from him.

Over the fall I found something almost as good. A full contact flag league. Flag football usually makes me cranky because it's dominated by little quick guys and they don't allow physical contact. Glorified catch. Full contact allows rushing and blocking. As a bonus, you can hit wide receivers anywhere on the field, provided the ball hasn't been thrown. And you're encouraged to pull the flag with authority.

Terms again? Ask away.

In this flag league I played linebacker and took great pleasure in knocking players trying to run crossing routes over the middle, on their ass. I lead the team in tackles, by a pretty good margin, and I didn't play in 3 games out of 9.

I also got my first black eye. Elbow. Knocked into me so hard, the contact lens in my other eye slipped off. Since the one that was hit was closed, I walked pretty much blind over to the sideline. Someone slipped the good one back into place and I cautiously opened the impacted eye. Contact hadn't moved. I could see. Back in I went, missing a total of one play. Here's a picture of my awesome first black eye. My left one, which is important later.



This last Thanksgiving, I got to play some tackle again. Eye healed up, knees feeling pretty good, despite the fact I'd put on a little winter weight. At the end of the first game, I got to call and run the last play. It was the last play because next touchdown won and we had the ball on about the 2 yard line. I'm not sure why they decided I could call the last play, but I took it.

All game long this little dude (about 5'6" maybe 140lbs), was covering me man-to-man. A couple of times he tried to use bump and run tactics, which, I'll save you the trouble of asking, means he tried jamming (hitting) me as the ball is hiked. The intent is to slow me down and make me run a bad route.

After the second time I pushed him away and caught a pass, I told him he should use his speed, not his strength. Using his speed would keep my hands off him and allow him to wait in ambush, essentially, until the ball is throw.

So, on this last play call, I call a quarterback sneak. This was after they said to call a play, but before they said I was running it. I figured I would block for someone else. Instead, I stand behind the center, call hike, and in rushes that little dude, determined to tackle me in the backfield.

Instead, he leads with his face and collides, full speed, with my head. The crack was so loud, everyone else on the field came to a stop as he fell, nearly knocked out. I stood there for a second, then spun to my left and ran across the goal line to end the game.

Little dude busted his mouth up so badly, he leaves for the hospital. He also, most likely, had a mild concussion, as he wasn't too responsive to questions. I felt bad, but it was his fault. My wound, and wound it was, froze nearly immediately. It was cold out.

Another group of guys showed and I played another couple hours.

I got home and cleaned up. I probably should have gotten a stitch, but some painful cleaning and a few squirts of flesh glue later, and good as always. Probably blew my underwear modeling career; but I'm guessing chicks that like fat, violent, Neanderthals (who happen to draw, paint and design the other 364 days of the year) probably don't mind a little scar while we curl up on the couch to watch Futurama.

By the way, despite the way it sounds, this isn't meant to be an egotistical rant on my toughness/coolness/whatever; it's a loving essay on one of my favorite activities in the world. It's also an excuse to show you my cool scars and stuff.

So, without further adieu, here is a picture of my cool gash, before and after. Also, pictures of my two shirts: tee shirt over turtleneck. The yellow-circled blood is mine, from wiping and a little run down the face. The big splatter on the front is from the little dude that hit me. He was only there for a split second, but when his teeth made their way through his lips, gore ensued.

Last note, it's over my right eye. One for each. And more pics are in my pics section, under the "Me" category.