Youth Football

I haven't raised aggressive boys.

That isn't an apology. I'm not fond of the trait in others and I've actively discouraged in my sons. I like to think they are confident and enthusiastic and strong willed without being overbearing and selfish. I suspect genetics in involved as I'm not terribly aggressive myself. I stand in lines, I ask permission, I wait to be called on. It isn't that I don't like to win, it's just that I've found that I sometimes lose and I've come to terms with that.

In most areas of modern life, you can be successful without aggression, but that probably isn't true in sports. The whole point is to be the best by beating everyone else, which is tough to do if you don't go after it without hesitating about stepping on a toe or two. At very least I think it separates the best athletes from those who are just playing.

Baseball is one of the few physical games where you can be a little mild as still play the game well. In football, mildness is anathema. I'm still taken aback, being principally involved in baseball, at the unabashed bloodlust of so many people surrounding football. Players, coaches, fans. I don't have sufficient knowledge of the game to ever coach it, but the angry shouting in and of itself is enough for me to want to keep my distance. That's what I did last year.

This year, I liked the guys running the team. Coach Jon must be 6-6 290, but he runs his practices in a voice appropriate for a preschool Sunday school class. Sure, he occasionally loses it in games and throws his visor, or yells so loudly that every square inch of Shannon Park fields can hear his displeasure, but he fights it and often as not comes sheepishly back within 3 minutes with an apology and a "come on, guys". Coach Bob must be the mellowist body builder history has ever seen. He's imposing just in the act of crossing his arms and frowning, but, despite spending some 500 hours with him this summer, I've never heard a cross word. They're a couple of nice, goofy guys and with their good will and encouragement, I was reluctantly coaxed to the player side of the field.

The thing is, the shouters often win in football. Shaping burgeoning testosterone may require some volume, some anger and some physicality. That's mostly what I've seen from the opposing coaches all year. So while our team has speed, it has a good amount of football knowledge, it practices frequently and stays in games, it only has one win.

It didn't occur to me until after we won, but the in-game chat between team coaches, neither of which yet had a win, was as amiable as a backyard BBQ. It was all "Aw, shucks" and "that was a nice play".

What WAS occurring to me during the game was that our fastest player, the only one to have scored any TD's, was out for the season with a shattered kneecap. That our left guard had not taken his ADD medication. That our safety was asking about the identity of an overflying bird. That our nosetackle was still standing up before driving forward, that our center's pants were too small to be buttoned, that our quarterback believed in his heart that he'd been assigned to the bad news bears, that our 2 back was more interested in hitting the statistician than the linebacker and that our head coach was looking at his watch and talking about going to the Gopher's game.

If the meek shall inherit the Earth, they better hope that the next of kin is even meeker. That is how we got our only win.

There are still claims at our practices that "we can compete with any of the other teams" and "we're getting better every week". I'm not sure if that's coach speak or naivete, but I'm pretty sure its not true. There is still one game left in the season when we might get another win and there are other sports and other seasons. But after countless hours preparing and encouraging, even if it's only once, winning sure is a lot more fun than losing.

Not a Cowboy

Did you know that my wife is fascinated with horseback riding? It comes from all those damn historical romance books she reads, but one of our future vacations is going to be at a dude ranch. I shit you not.

About two years ago, when she revealed this, I asked her, never having ridden a horse WITH her and having a long standing ill ease with horses, "how many times have you ridden?" Answer? Never.

So, once in Tennessee and once in England, we rented horses and rode. Each time for me is an exercise in smiling through anxiety and discomfort for the benefit of my companions. I've ridden probably 20 times in my life and can honestly say I never really enjoyed it. I think I have a good attitude, but it isn't my thing. There just isn't much cowboy in me.

On a vacation to the West, it seemed appropriate to get on a horse. To get a taste of what the frontiersmen and settlers did. There were several opportunities within Yellowstone, but none of them would take my 7 year old niece. Rachel  did some research and found a couple of spots just outside the north entrance in Montana. Because of its location, we picked one called the Slip and Slide ranch.

We drove the two 30 foot RV's into Montana and up a mile long gravel road through a big wooden arching sign to Ryan's 900 acre ranch and home. It's beautiful, obviously. Rugged, but neat. Ryan and his family (wife and three kids) are waiting for us in the driveway and when I get out he shook my hand with the strongest grip I've ever felt. Huge bulging cowboy hands that squeezed me like I was a Canadian circus freak.

We sign ONE form. All of us on one together. No helmets, no body armor (seriously, they give you that in England), no questions about
ability level or weight or comfort....just 3 minutes of fast plain
talk about what not to do and how to proceed. He didn't even ask for
payment until he shook our hands goodbye at the end. He lifted both
my niece and nephew up on their horses with such efficiency that each
of them, surprised, almost went over the top. He would have done the
same with each of us, but no matter how intimidated I am by a horse
(bless you, Poncho, for submitting to my will), I will not be thrown
on top of one.

And off we went before the sunscreen was even fully applied. At the
lead of the line was Ryan's 8 year old daughter, in a pink cowboy hat
and matching boots. At the rear was his seven year old son and 4 year
old daughter, also garbed in pink. Ryan was training a new horse and
basically went up and down the line barking instructions like (to my
brother), "first ask, then encourage, then enforce. Don't make me
take you off that horse and put my little girl on." Occasionally, in
small lispy voices one of the kids would chime in, "go a little
faaasah. kick a little haaardah" or yammer away like an elementary
kid with a new friend. The boy pointed out the best trout lake and
told this great story about the time they saw a cougar. We saw hawks
and ducks and a huge herd of elk. Also bison, which is the livestock
Ryan raises. You can look all around on a horse and not worry about
where your feet are falling.

At the one quarter mark, the boy took the lead. He rode around the
line with his four year old sister and took my niece's reigns, the
two girls then rode ahead to circle back around to the tail of the
line. They were out of sight and I was making small talk with Ryan
when we heard, in the distance, squeals and screams from the two
girls. Ryan's ears perked...really, perked. He road up to the front
to meet the two, who were speeding back and squealing, "there's a
raaahtlah on the trail."

Ryan says (with the tone of "christ, you're gonna scare the
greenhorns"), "use your heads girls, calm down." He rides up and
dismounts. Moments later we see a rattlesnake skeleton fly 50 feet
into the air and into the shrubs. We were told by my sister in law,
who witnessed it, that he had crushed the snake with his boot, grabbed
it by the back of the head and pulled the entire spine out of the
snake's body, then tossed it. When I passed there was a second snake,
head and rattle removed, squirming by the trail.

"All in a days work?" I asked.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"What's the preferred tool for that job?"

"Always seems to be rocks around till you need one, but they work
best. Or a big stick"

He handed my brother the two bloody rattles and we moved on up the trail.