Dodo Eggs

Ok, listen.  The rules are simple.  Below are two delightful stories that deal with every American’s favorite topic after those things that are not considered safe for normal conversation. (Sorry race, religion, and politics.  You guys have your own blogs.)  Of course, I’m referring to football.  One of theses tales is truth right from my playbook.  The other is false snap count designed to catch you off sides.  YOU MAKE THE CALL!

Story Number One-

At my old high school (a small boarding school in South Dakota), the garbage was hauled around campus and to the incinerator by a worn out, cantankerous old pickup truck.  It started only if you rubbed its steering wheel the right way.  There was an appalling lack of cup holders, no radio, and three very stubborn springs on the driver’s side of the single seat. 

I had the opportunity to coax this vehicle into movement on many occasions but not during football season.  During that time, picking up the campus trash and the much more difficult job of starting the pickup, fell to another.

It had been an abnormally wet fall and football season was nearly over.  We had a deep, early snow, a sudden warm up, and finally a day of cold rain.  The practice field grass had already been worn down to dirt or in this case…mud.  There was mud on the field and on everyone’s practice jerseys.

Wes was driving the garbage trunk over to pick up the gym’s garbage.  He parked it then wandered inside without shutting the engine off.  No one paid the rough idling vehicle any attention until it started smoking.

“Hey coach, look I think the garbage truck is on fire!”

Coach blew his whistle and everyone stopped.  Thick smoke was shoving its way out from under the hood.  This lasted only a minute before the spastic tips of flames began peeking from the engine compartment.

With as cold as it was, no one had bothered to bring out a cooler of water.  Several of us just stood around before one of the freshmen ran over and shut off the engine and released the hood.  The fire and smoke persisted.   

“Well, quick grab something”

Most of us wandered over and just shrugged.  We didn’t have any idea how to put out the fire.

Then Shelburne grabbed a handful of mud off his jersey and tossed it into the engine compartment.  There was a hiss followed by another lessening of the fire.  Several others tried.  The mudslinging only lasted a minute or so but it did successfully put out the fire.

We found out later the carburetor had somehow sprung a leak, which threw gasoline on the hot engine block. 

At least this didn’t happen anywhere near Hollywood.  There the vehicle would have exploded and jumped twelve feet into the air.  As usual, the old garbage pickup showed it had no sense of the dramatic.

Story Number 2

The collisions in football make it one of the more dangerous sports in which to participate.  Severe to mild injuries can occur to any part of your body.  After every game, you’ll feel sore and a bit beat up even in places that normally don’t complain.  It’s a little like After Thanksgiving Shopping. 

During my senior year, I was the leading point scorer and tackler for my team.  (This really wasn’t a big deal my school wasn’t big, see my post Enjoying The Sunshine.  In fact, we only played nine-man football.  And yes, you can do that.)  Like any other high school buck, I wore my achievement on the football field like a badge of honor.  Since I didn’t have any hair on my chest, this was a necessary substitution.

My ego and pinky finger became a little bent out of shape during the Homecoming game.  I tried to close my hand after making a tackle but something was wrong.  I looked down to find the middle bone in my end finger had been misplaced and slid a bit onto the bone behind it. 

I screamed like a girl with a knot in her pigtail (spectators confused with my post-tackle primal roar).  A fast as I could, I pulled the bone back into place.  I couldn’t feel anything right away but I knew the pain would come.  It even happened a second time later in the game.

After the game, my pinky swelled up to football size.  I was taken to a medical professional who promptly fitted me with a  “Pinky Harness.”  It was a sturdy aluminum bar that went over my finger and was wrapped in faux leather.

I was going to be out of practice for a while but even worse was the idea of strutting down the hallway with my machismo tied up in a little finger brace.

I looked at the doctor with eyes near tears.  “Do you have anything with spikes?”

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