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The Football Game
Posted: Friday, December 08, 2006
By David Savona
When I read that Tiki Barber, the phenomenal running back for my beloved New York Giants, would retire after this season, I was appalled. How could he do this to Giants fans? To his teammates? To me? He's only 31 years old, he's at the top of his game, and he's still searching for that elusive Super Bowl Ring. Why quit now?
After playing football with my friends last weekend, I have an idea why he's hanging up his cleats.
 This was the second year we've held this game, and the players were a bunch of guys in their 20s, 30s and 40s of varying shape. Some exercise on a regular basis. A few have lifted weights seriously at some point in their lives. At least one has run a marathon. Some are still in fine shape, but for a few, their best bodies are things of the distant past. Like myself.
I knew I was in trouble when I forgot something in my car, and jogged back to the parking lot, all of 100 yards away. It left me puffing like an asthmatic in a sandstorm. Not good. I decided at that time to concentrate on playing the line. Better to slug it out blocking than to try and sprint downfield, which would surely result in a heart attack. I might die. Worse, my wife would undoubtedly be furious.
The game was one of flag football, where you wear a belt sporting a pair of hanging plastic strips that are attached by Velcro. The idea is if someone rips off one of your flags—they're supposed to be positioned at either hip—you're tackled. And that's how most plays unfolded, at least in theory. Of course, there were those times when it was a lot easier to grab a hold of the person than the elusive, fluttering flag. And hitting a person is a lot more fun than grabbing plastic. (Sorry about that late hit, Mark. I hear the triceps is a fast-healing muscle.)
I actually scored a running touchdown, although the word "running" has to be explained somewhat. We were on the one-yard line. My buddy Tim smiled and handed me the ball, then my entire team slammed into me, helping me push the pile of opposing players back enough to get cross the line. As I fell, something hard slammed into the top of my head. It felt like teeth, but in reality it was a teammate's chin.
That hurt a little. What hurt a lot was the kickoff return where my right shin slammed into something hard. It still hurts, four days later.
In fact, just about every part of my body hurts. The injured, motley crew that survived the game joked about the black market price of Vicodin soaring in our home town.
Last year, there were many injuries. A buddy broke his nose. (Apparently, this happens often, as his wife noted upon seeing him post-game.) Another tweaked a knee. A third was clonked in the head by something very hard (possibly that knee) and for the next 20 minutes or so sported that dazed look most often seen on the faces of men opening up post-holiday credit card statements. Yet another actually blew out a knee practicing for the game.
This year had its share of bangs and bruises, including bleeding hands (mine), a very bloody shin (Chris, the guy who broke his nose the previous year) and a painful back injury suffered by the youngest player, who went out about 15 minutes into the game. (A shocker.)
Which gets me back to Mr. Barber. When he mentioned retirement, he talked about the constant pounding his body takes on the field. Not a fake pounding like the one me and my friends went through, but a thorough, professional pounding. I'm certain any one of the harder hits he suffers on a typical Sunday would put me in the hospital, or maybe a pine box. OK, Tiki, I guess I understand.
Or maybe he just needs to finish the game the way we did. Mark, who planned the game, had the foresight and undeniable genius to bring along two torpedoes of beer for the sideline: a light Fosters and a hearty Samuel Adams Winter Brew. I contributed with a box of bracing cigars, Aurora Preferidos Emeralds. Lovely.
To show our true dedication to Thanksgiving sport, on the last kickoff, our team, which was comfortably in the lead, called an unusual play: attack the beer. We kicked, and ran en masse for the sidelines, straight for the kegs. The other team was a bit confused, until we stopped, picked up cups, and began pouring some frosty cold ones as we lit our cigars.
They took away some of the pain.
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