Tackle Football

The football we played at O’Gorman was not what you’d call organized. There were limited rules, were just thrown together at a moment’s notice, and were definitely not supervised, in spite of being played almost within sight of Sister Fay’s office (out principal). We were just messing around in the thin strip of grass fronting the main building on Rea Street, that bit of land no wider than a vehicular lane’s span, that length that reached towards Ross Street. There were no windows along that bit, just the cinderblock wall. We were no fools. We were never going to play in full view of a teacher’s desk. We also didn’t want to break any windows. That would have ended football season in a heartbeat. We didn’t think to move the games to the larger field behind the portable, that would have necessitated planning, and would opened up the game, and we were all about the rough and tumble of crashing through the tighter, narrow lines that that thin strip of land afforded.

Teams were quickly assembled. That didn’t take too long, as the teams were usually no more than 6 to a side, and were invariably made up of close friends. One didn’t want to hurt one’s friends, after all. But we did get hurt. This was not touch football. This was lead with your elbows to make a hole in the other team’s line football. This was pile up on top of the downed player to wrench the “loose” ball from his hands football. Closer to rugby than to football.

There wasn’t enough length in the field to advance up field, so all three downs were begun from the same start, each down potentially a touchdown. There were only three downs to keep the game moving along. There was only so many minutes in a recess.

The game always started with a coin toss. The winner was always first offence.

I recall one play in particular. We were defending. There was the snap, the usual rush of bodies. Our forward three pushed hard to hold the line, their three to open a space along the wall. Their receiver slipped by, then broke right towards Rea Street, with me in hot pursuit. The ball was thrown and I leapt and reached high to bat it down. I missed. The lines shifted, ours to defense in depth, theirs to block our defense, to clear the way to the end zone. The ball was caught and Garry Martin took hold of the receiver’s shirt, then gripped his torso and hauled on him hard, dragging and pushing him toward the wall. I just happened to be in the way as I landed and tried to find my feet. I felt their bodies crash into mine, and then their weight on me as I crashed hard into the cinderblocks, sliding down the wall onto my ass. Then the rest piled on. Arms reached, hands grabbed and dragged. Elbows landed. The weight rolled and crushed.

And when the last body piled on, my head snapped back.

I actually heard the impact within my skull. It was a soft, watery “bonk!” And there it was, my second concussion. I was instantly dazed, only somewhat aware of the shifting weight as they first struggled for the ball, and then rolled away and off of me.

It took a moment before anyone realized that I was not getting up.

I just sat there for a couple minutes, pupils likely dilated.

I don’t recall there being too many more games after that. Not for me, anyway.