The Bohemian in a helmet ( personal story)

I am not really a sports fan. Professional sports lost me a long time ago. The cost of tickets for most of them is a joke, and the level of dedication to the game is generally low. Sports heros talk of their great love for the team and city of for which they play, until they get traded. Then they speak the same words about their new adopted home.

There was a time I loved sports. Let me tell you about that now.

In Quebec City, where I grew up, the only game in town in high school was Canadian football. Most people would think that Canadians would choose hockey, but that was not the case in my hometown.

Hockey was something that was played on the street with friends, and watched with passion on TV. The real dream was to play high school football. My brothers had both been high school football stars in the Fifties. I was fourteen years younger, and had grown up with their stories...and in their shadow.

I was more the bookish type, although with a linebacker's build. I walked into my high school in Grade Eight - and spent the first year just getting used to the new environment.

If you ever saw the movie "Dazed and Confused", that movie was exceptionally close to my high school years - without the seniors with wooden paddles though. The first time I ever saw that movie, it was like an acid flashback to a forgotten time.

The weekly football games were the cultural highpoint of the week, and Quebec High School's field was always packed on Saturdays during football season. It wasn't a large field, but it's crowd of students old and new was always large and passionate about the game.

In my second year of high school, I decided to try out for the junior team. I still remember the first day I received my equipment. Our school budget was fairly low, and much of the equipment was probably at least twenty years old. My helmet ( in 1973 ) looked like something from a football photo from 1950. My team jersey, mended lovingly by a generation of mothers, had it's faded yellow "72" on a dark blue background.

Suiting up for the first time was like being some knight of old. Hip and shoulder pads, a jock, the football pants ( also tattered ) , and football cleats and helmet all went on with the same care as that of any NFL pro.No pro was ever more proud of his team outfit than I was back then. I was a grid iron Don Quixote.

Our team didn't even have a name. No mascot. Zip. It did have some awfully cute cheerleaders though, but I digress...

This wasn't America, it was small town Canada - and we knew there were no talent scouts out there watching. We were doing all this because we loved it, and for no other reason.

The coaches on our junior team were volunteer parents. Both were EXCEPTIONAL. They infused us with pride and confidence in ourselves, the team, and in the game. They demanded the highest level of sportsmanship from us, and our best effort, at all times. The practices were brutal.

We would often go off running to a local park. That park featured some iron stairs that were probably about seven or eight stories high. We would run them for about a half hour or so - in cleats. Then we would run back to the field and practice plays. Most of us would be lying exhausted on the field by the end of all that, and we were in great physical shape to begin with.

It was a little like Navy Seal Hell week - every practice.

I still remember the first game. I awoke early, and my equipment was already packed. I lived about a twenty minute walk from my high school. When I arrived, the team was already starting to assemble. The crowds were slowly forming, and the fall leaves were swirling around the awaiting crowd.

The nervous energy in the changing room was electric. Soon we were dressed, and listening to our coaches final words. I think I know how military men in must feel before their first battle.

I was left offensive tackle, we seemed to all fit a sterotype. The rich kids as offensive runners, the working class as linemen. Offense quiet and subdued, defense crazed and loose. We didn't feel those differences though, we saw ourselves as a machine.

We assembled in a large circle, and started chanting. It was a school tradition, and I had heard that chant many times from the outside. Now I was in the middle of the lion''s den, and the sound was exploding off the tiles in waves.

Then we were off...

Our first game was against a French team from out of town. We were all totally bilingual, but had decided we would not let the other team know that fact right away. It was always nice to hear them insulting us, oblivious to the fact we understood every word. Occasionally, we would even overhear the next play being discussed. We always waited until about the last five minutes to start talking to them in french.

They got off their bus, dressed in brand new equipment. We hated them immediately. They were new to the game, and still learning. We had it in our DNA.

They won the toss, and we received.

I ran out to the field, and took my place. My guard and I were good friend, and instinctively knew how to work together. The ball was snapped, and thanks to a beautifully executed cross block, a hole appeared exactly where we wanted it to in the defensive line - just in time for our teammate with the ball to go roaring through it.

A few plays later we were ahead.

My coach asked me to try as defensive tackle on the next set of plays. I agreed, but wasn't sure as to my ability.

The quarterback of the opposing team seemed to be like most I would come to know. The typical "jock" pretty boy, who loved the fame and attention of center stage. Dressed in his brand new gear, he was confident and brash. The second I saw him, I decided that I was going to do my best to change his view about football forever.

We went into our stances, and I could see the ball out of the corner of my eye. As it lifted off the ground, a strange thing happened. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and I launched myself forward through the gap between the two players in the offensive line. They tried to stop me - but I exploded though them still in slow motion.

" Mr. Pretty Boy " was now about fifteen feet away going back, and I could see his eyes searching for an open receiver. His arm started to move backwards, and only one thing came to my head...

Scream

So I did...

This animal sound came out of my throat, in the loudest voice possible. Other than that there was dead silence, except for the wind whistling in my helmet.

"Pretty Boy's" eyes stopped looking for his receiver, and started looking more like a deer in a semi's headlights. I doubt he even had time to register an image, before he saw me as I threw myself at him at a dead run.

I hit him at shoulder level, and the two of us were suddenly airborne. We flew backwards, and he landed on the hard field with a thud - followed by me landing on top of him with an even greater thud.

Suddenly it was like time had restarted again, and a loud cheer broke the silence.

I rolled off of my foe, leaped to my feet, and reached down to help him up. He was dazed, and waved it off. His team mates ran to his aid, and I walked away to a hero's reception by my side.

He sat out the next few plays.

After that I was given the honour of never leaving the field for the entire rest of the season. There were a lot more plays like that, and I had lived up to my family's reputation, and the team's.

We were an exceptionally well balanced team, and went on to win the city championship. I went on to be voted MVP lineman for my performance that year, and had my plaque given to me by a visiting Montreal Alouette at our team supper at year's end.

I went on to senior football the next year. The coaches were a lot worse, and the spirit that I had so loved was gone. The "team" was a mass of individuals, and game day was something I started to hate. They had killed everything I had been so drawn to.

My coach even forced me to play as linebacker, which I despised - and was terrible at doing.

One quarter into the third game, I suddenly realized it was all pointless.

I walked over to the coach, and told him I was quitting right there and then. He told me I could not.

I just walked off the field, and left my equipment in the shower room.

I was finished with the game forever.