Strange things, dates. August 1st will forever be ingrained in my head. I woke this morning in a great mood. And then a wave of anxiety fell over me. Not sure why, I continued on until it hit me. Today is August 1st. Before the bike, I was first and foremost, a football player. When I was seven, I begged my father to let me play. My two older brothers played and I loved going to their games and watching the collisions, and blood, the yelling, the whistles, the roar of the crowd, the crunch of the leaves, the crispness in the air. All of it. My dad was right, I was too young, but I wouldn't let up and he caved. The first day of practice, the coach told us to grab a knee. I protested because there were prickers on the ground. He lined us up against each other and blew his whistle signaling us to hit each other. The boy fired out and I went down on my butt. I sat out for a while even taking off my helmet at one point and stuffing the vent holes with dandelions. Somewhere, amongst the other proud papa's stood my father seething. After practice, I got in the car and told my dad how great it all was. He drove in silence. When I got home I went for my room to change out of my uniform. He stopped me cold. "Get out in the backyard. Leave your stuff on, and get down there and wait." What? With that, he yelled up stairs for my brothers. They came to the top of the stairway and received my fathers instructions, "Michael, Tony, put your football stuff on and come out into the backyard." I heard what he said, but I didn't believe it. I looked up the stairwell and saw my brothers gleaming. They didn't need to be asked twice. Still skeptical, I waited in the backyard. My brothers were there in what seemed like an instant. My father gave a brief scenario as to how the first football practice of my life went. The prickers, the dandelions, the lack of participation. But Dad, I wanted to scream, I didn't know that practice was a whole bunch of hitting. I remained silent not sure what was going to happen. Certainly he wasn't going to turn these two guerrillas loose. To my horror, he grabbed me by the scruff and threw me into a three point stance. He yelled at Michael and Tony to do the same. With a look of total joy, they both complied. Surely they would take it easy on me. Tony was four years older and Michael, only two years older, but as strong as an ox, would take pity on their younger and certainly weaker little brother. My father yelled "hit" at a fiercly loud pitch and that they did. I remember getting whacked like I'd never been whacked. My hand never came off the ground and I was on my ass so quickly, that to this day I don't know how it happened so fast. I also remember the snot coming out of my nose and plastering my facemask. Violent. I began to cry. Lesson learned. My brothers, now feeling a bit worse, got off the ground and retreated for the house. I layed there in shock. "Where are you two going," my father grumbled. "We're not done here." WHAT? He's going to kill me. Again lifting me as if I was a feather, he formed me into a three point stance. Then yelling at my brothers to do the same. They hesitated for a moment. I love those guys, because at this point, they knew my dad had lost it. This was unreasonable. But in a bit of a pickle, they complied, "hit" was bellowed and the onrush of brothers ensued. Snot, tears, yelling, brothers compassionately begging forgiveness for pummelling their younger brother continued for another 30 minutes. My mother, for at least 25 minutes stood on the balcony yelling deplorable things at my father. He only scowled in her direction. Finally, at my wits end and frustrated and humiliated and mad, I reacted. He said hit, and I did. I leapt from my stance and flung my battered, bloodied and bruised body at my brothers with reckless abandon. Again I was overmatched, but for one brief instant, I had arrested their forward progress. I ended up on my butt again, but this time it was about where I had started and not at my fathers feet some five feet in arrears. "That'll do boys," was all he said. The next day at practice, well let's just say that the little boy across from me didn't know what hit him. A football player was made that day. The old fashioned way.

So later I joined the San Ramon Valley T-Birds and practice always began on August 1st. The summer always was bittersweet. The looming season always in the back of my mind. I grew up a lineman where football is a little different. There are no touchdowns or cheers or girls or eyeblack. There is only the sheer violence with every snap. The games are great. The knowing that you did your part to put the ball over the line though somebody else gets the credit. But the thrill of the game can only carry you so far. The bumps and the bruises and the jammed fingers are a constant reminder that this game is brutal. The constant struggle to do what it takes to be great and sacrifice everything else. It all used to begin on August 1st. I ultimately played 10 years of the sport. By the end, I was good enough to get the job done despite being undersized for the line. I stopped growing somewhere along the line, but long ago I learned that nobody across the line from me would ever be more imposing than my two older brothers. And someday, when my little boy comes to me with ideas of being on the football field,...I'll buy him a tuba.

Johnny GoFast