By JOHN E. HOOVER Sports Columnist on May 13, 2012, at 11:01 AM Updated on 5/13 at 11:01 AM
GAME POINT
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My son’s been bugging me for three years to let him play tackle football.
I’ve put it off as long as possible, keeping him in the district’s intramural flag program while he learns bits and pieces about the game.
But the day is upon us. Enrollment for big boy ball is this Saturday.
And every day I turn on the television or radio and see handfuls of experts and former players tell me they would think twice about putting their kids in the brutal, exquisite turf war that is tackle football.
Evidence against it is hard to watch. The video clip of the poor little first-timer lowering his head while a bigger kid lowers his head and runs him over, helmet-to-helmet, and leaves him writhing and crying on the grass? As a dad of a poor little first-timer, my stomach rolls and my heart drops when I see it.
I played football in high school. Loved every minute of it.
Except the two concussions.
My junior year, I got ear-holed — helmet-to-helmet in the side of the head — while returning a kickoff. I exacerbated my own misery by trying to spin out of a tackle, only to spin into the helmet of a kid running 40 yards at top speed. It knocked me completely unconscious and I woke up a few minutes later on the sideline with our crusty old trainer kneeling over me with smelling salts in his hands and a cigarette in his lips.
My senior year, I took the crown of a helmet right in the chin while rushing the quarterback. I literally found myself in the emergency room after the game as a doctor stitched me up under a glaring white medical light. But that’s just what I remember. Apparently, I got a couple butterfly bandages and went back into the game. The next morning in film review, I sat in shock and amazement as this person playing my position and wearing my number sacked the quarterback four times in the second half. Teammates and coaches told me great job, but I never remembered any of it.
I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. I have no sensitivity to light. No searing headaches. No depression. No major memory loss. (Actually, my wife would probably disagree on that last one.) But that’s two major concussions in just four years of high school football. I didn’t start playing until the ninth grade. My son is going into sixth grade.
Football taught me so much as a kid: Life lessons about dealing with disappointment and overcoming adversity; testing my own limits of endurance, mentally and physically; disparate individuals coming together to pursue a common goal; the unbridled joy of victory.
But, now that my own son is about to step into the arena, I’m truly torn about this violent game that I love. Do I let the boy don the warrior’s armor, knowing that pain and injury is inevitable — possibly something long-term? Or do I break my promise and shield him from combat, also keeping from him all those poignant lessons that have served me well?
— John E. Hoover
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