When I was in High School we had a football coach named Russ Hepner. Russ was a muscular man who wore his short sleeve shirts very tight to show off his well developed physique, and his short legged shorts pulled very high in the crotch to apparently show off the other well developed parts of his body. Though no one seemed to take notice of the latter, his "costume" provided hours of "behind the back" ridicule, as only teenagers can do.
Russ had favorite sayings - "...that's hell's bell's fellas..." and "...horse feathers..." were among his most frequent. He was a task master on the field and a feared teacher in the classroom. But he was also, and ultimately, a well respected and liked man.
Two of my older brothers, first Pete and then Dave, were star players on Russ' football teams. As a young man I always enjoyed watching my brothers play, often in fullback or halfback positions, which allowed them the opportunity to score touchdowns and carry the moniker of "star" football player.
I never liked football. I liked watching football, but I never liked playing football. When I was in 7th grade I had exactly one experience with organized football and I still have a clear memory of how much I disliked it. The coach was a non-descript tough guy, the kind who probably played high school ball himself but ended up driving a forklift six days a week: midnight shift.
"So listen young fella, on this play, you're gonna hold your ground and when the offensive end comes at you, you're gonna hit him right in the ear hole!
"The ear hole?"
"Yeah, just hard like this", thwack! (You can take the tough guy out of the game, but you can't take the game out of the tough guy.) "Right in the ear hole."
I remember thinking how much that hurt.
"Don't I get to carry the ball? And run for a touchdown?"
"Nah, nah. That's for the backs. Now get out there and hit!
"But..."
"But nothing. Don't worry about it, you're gonna love it. Hit! Hit! HIT!"
Thus began and ended my career with the Grosse Pointe Lions.
But apparently news of my retirement had not reached Russ's ears, for every year in late July or early August, I received the same phone call:
“Hey Pat, Coach Hepner here, listen, I hope you're havin' a good summer. I wanna talk to you about the football program."
"Football?"
"Sure. We start 2-a-day practices next week. Now I hope you're gonna play football like your older brothers, aren't you?"
"Football? Uh, to be honest Mr. Hepner, I don't really like football."
"Don't like it? Why not?"
"Well, I just, it's just... I don't know, I just don't like it." I didn't have the heart, or the guts, to say that I thought it was a bit stupid, that it seemed like a bunch of organized idiots running around the field, hitting each other in the "ear hole" for 60 minutes while they chased a dead pig.
"Aw, now, let me tell you something, Pat. That's just... well, hells bells fellas, that's just horse feathers. Now, your brothers, Pete and Dave, now they were great young football players. And they really benefited from the program. And I gotta tell ya, I think you’d be a great young football player and I think you’d really benefit from the program as well."
Right. Here's the thing. I didn't want to benefit from the program. I didn't like the program. And although I had a lot of friends in the program, I just didn't think it was the right thing for me.
But I digress. My point here is that in High School the "program" was probably a good thing. Young kids, mostly boys, exercised and stayed in shape. They worked out. They lifted weights. They were agile and limber and after a week of "2-a-days" they went home and ate their mothers' out of house and home and never gained weight.
That's great when you're 16. Or 17. Or 18, or 19, or 22 or even 25. But when you're a man (or woman) of a certain (mid to late 40's) age, the body is not meant for that kind of continual physical abuse.
Unless you're in Mamma Mia 8 times a week. At which point, apparently, all bets are off and constant pain is the word of the day!
Again, and I don't want to sound like a wimp here, or redundant, but we spent 8 hours today rehearsing mostly the dance and movement sequences - "Gimme, Gimme, Gimme", Voulez-Vous", the "Wedding and Finale" - and I am so absolutely fricking exhausted it's hilarious! I'm dyin' here! I'm walking around my house like a 90 year old man! Where's the walker? I think I need that stair chair thing that takes you from one flight to the next! And don't even talk to me about my back. Oy vey!
I should have known I was in trouble when I walked into rehearsal and saw John AND David, both of my other fellow Dad's, wearing protective braces on both of their knees, and we hadn't even started. Did they know something I didn't know? Had they gotten a memo that I missed? Apparently. Though I believe their pain was assuaged no less than mine even with the aid of their apparatus. At least I toughed it out without medicaid assistance!
But in the end, as seems to happen after every rehearsal, we laughed and joked and I secretly pinched myself, quietly asking "I'm still getting paid to have this much fun, right?" Somehow, it just doesn't seem right.
I also have to say that it felt, after all that had gone on over the last few days with the wake and funeral and attendant family issues, very good to be able to throw myself right back into work. There was a speaker at the wake who made a point of saying that a big part of who we are, of what defines us, is the work we do. I believe that's true, and I believe, I know, that I'm very lucky to make my living doing my work, doing what I love to do more than anything else in the world. And no value can be placed on that.
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