The club was abuzz the other day about the number of family outrages players in the NFL have committed or have been accused of committing. The one that most interested us because of its ambiguity was the case of a star birching his son with a switch as a form of discipline. He has been charged with assault.
If today’s standards existed when I was a youth, the jails would have been in need of enlargement because of the number of times I was hit with anything handy. The most bowel-loosening words in the English language were “Wait till your father comes home!”
My harassed father would race through the vestibule from his car, jaws akimbo for the first of his three nightly martinis, when my mother cut him off from the living room, within sight of the silver ambrosia, his elixir of life, to whisper fervently into his tired ears news of my ghastliness.
I have come to realize that while he was never pleased to hear of my misdeeds, it was the delay of tasting his longed-for gin that really rankled him.
He usually raced up the stairs loosening his regimental belt, shouting, “Nigel, you blasted boy!” before bending me over my bed and giving me six of the juiciest, as it were.
All of my friends at school had the same experience, so I was far from alone. There was one exception in our neighbourhood, a wall-eyed Quaker boy whose parents thought the whole thing barbaric. Odd family.
If that NFL player had done what he did some 50 or 60 years ago, it would have raised little or no comment, but today it is more than frowned upon and perhaps rightly so, as the child in question is only six.
On the other hand I have stopped watching American football, at least until the Super Bowl, for a number of reasons other than the one above. I suppose my main complaint is the fear I have that I am watching the onset of mass Stage 1 dementia. Also the amount of unruly celebration the chaps do today. If someone tackles another player, there takes place something along the lines of the Rapture, with several minutes of breast-beating and helmet-slapping while dancing strangely.
My long-ago football hero was Jim Brown of Cleveland, who would make an incredible gain and then simply drop the ball and return to the huddle. After all that was his job, to play well. Nowadays it is along the lines of St. Vitus’s Dance for the smallest of achievements over and over again.
Also there are so many whistles and stoppages for obscure infractions. If it wasn’t for replay I would never be aware of them. But the fact that one cannot pull the hair of players who have grown yards of it seems silly. After all, it is hanging out of their helmets and very handy. Also time outs are called if a player loses one of his diamond earrings. Madness.
I was never a star playing rugby and I only scored once. I was pushed over the line by my teammates for a “try,” while one of the opposition had two fingers lodged up my nose and someone else was biting my privates. It was an excruciating victory. I still cannot watch someone eat meatballs.
I was later found face down in the muddy field with a wedge of orange stuck between my teeth, put there by the moustachioed first-aid lady.
However rugby is a game with very few time-outs, penalties or substitutions. It never stops for long. By the end of the game everyone looks like a tired warrior. The NFL teams appear to have about 1,100 players, with experts for everything from special teams to kickers to short yardage experts to red zone shock troops and what seems like a coach for everyone. There are even attendants who pour drinks down the throats of players who just stand with open mouths!
It is a far cry from the football of my youth, which seemed so simple. Many of us played both defence and offence for the entire game and it appeared to move along at a good clip. Also we were taught to tackle around the legs, not use one’s helmet as a weapon.
I am told that now an average player may play only four or five minutes over an entire game. I am glad I took up rugby while I still could. Although that is far in my past, it was fast paced with a minimum of equipment and cost little to play.
The club is still split on the spanked child.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2014
[email protected]
twitter The YYJMajor
Mary Kahn
Funny. And I’ve no doubt the Major felt the rod more than a few times in his youth.
Kathy O'Brien
Ouch!!! Very funny !
Michael Whipps
Ah yes, for the days of yore. My partner and I watch only the “Beautiful Game”, or what we western barbarians call soccer. I recall my rugby coach, Mr. Davies, from Wales, admonishing us to “Get up boy, it’s only a scratch”, for anything less than a compound fracture. Time-outs were only for things such as earthquakes or Tsunamis.
Thanks Major.
Michael Whipps, Lantzville, BC
Allan Prout
Good article, very good. If today’s standards were in effect yesteryear my father would be in prison. I survived though ! I never watch NFL football because as you write the Jim Browns and the George Reeds are mostly gone. They can be down 50-3 and still dance their idiotic little dances which frankly pisses me off. Try and act like you’ve been in the end zone before !