What It Wuz, Wuz Football

by Sydney Michelle
© Omphale Press, 2002

 

With all due apologies to Andy Griffith (Mayberry, Matlock) who has to have done the funniest routine ever on trying to unnerstan’ thet tussle over thet funny lookin’ punkin. Cause what it wuz, wuz football.

In the beginning, there was a street game that became what the Europeans call Football and that Americans call Soccer. And then the Devil entered into the soul and a player picked up the ball and ran with it at an English school named Rugby. And that begat the scrum, which begat the flying wingback, which begat the touch, which was transmogrified into the touchdown. And all lived within the law, as handed down by the officials, and enforced by a swift kick in the pants, followed by toothless swaying and much quaffing of numbing beverages.

And then there came Princeton and Rutgers. Instead of a scrum to obtain possession of the inflated pig bladder, one side was given "possession" and became the "offense" which tried to advance the inflated pig bladder (tough on the swine population, that game was) toward the opponent’s goal line. After much huffing and puffing, and no scoring, it was handed down that advancing the bladder ten yards would grant the "offense" a new set of downs. And the Mighty Hand said that four downings of the bladder was all that the offense had to complete that mighty task, or the ball should "go over on downs." And it was decreed that throwing the ball forward, "a forward pass," was an abomination, and that should such a thing be done, that the "defense" should be awarded the bladder on the spot, and henceforth be known as the "offense." And to determine whether an adequate advance had been made, lines of chalk were added to the field, known as "yard lines" and the field became known as a "gridiron" for its appearance.

In time, heresy crept into the Game, along with coaches and trainers, and medics. And co-eds wept profusely over the fallen. The true ways were lost, and the forward pass was permitted, but if it were not caught on the fly, the "defense" was still awarded the bladder, now encased in leather to keep it from bursting, hence becoming a "ball." The vile untruth that it was so named because survivors inevitably were consoled by co-eds afterwards at one such, followed by having stiffness and tension therein relieved by gentle ministrations of supple fingers is a base canard.

And then Old Eli Yale discovered the flying wedge, wherein members of the offense swept down with interlocked arms upon the hapless Crimson, scattering them to the four winds while a tiny coxswain recruited from Cuba just for the purpose danced along hidden behind until he was flung over the goal line and arose, crying with great joy, "I keek a touchdown! I keek a touchdown!" There was great weeping in New England, and Rachel would not be comforted, thrusting away the Puritan champion with curled lip and uttering, "Loser!" Therefore the Great Lawgivers in the Yard assembled and decreed that such tactics were ungentlemenly, and uncouth, and illegal, and would be answered with great wrath, namely nullification of the play and the score, and awarding the ball to the opposing team and moving that closer to their scoring line. And thus was born the "penalty." And with it came the Mighty Enforcer, "The Referee."

And great crowds began to assemble to watch their youth struggle to assert their manliness, one over another, they having no Army to speak of and few to test their mettle against, now that the Red Man defended his honor by running up the score while playing for Carlisle. The ones in back began the now familiar cry of "Down in front!" And the front lines would stand to get out of the way whenever the fleet-footed back dashed by, originating "The Wave" as those behind them also stood to try to see the play. So they began to build seats of wood, and sell tickets for those who would sit rather than stand. And people came who knew not the purpose of the game, who had to be told when to cry for joy, and when to weep with rage. Thus was created the "cheerleader," that the opposing team might know that they took ground at their peril.

And Princeton invited those of great wealth to be entertained by the spectacle, to know that their youth were not merely idle dilettantes, but manly men, worthy of propagating the race. And the Man of Steel looked upon the spectacle, and was appalled. And he decreed there would be no race left to propagate, or only low and brutish louts, so he gave unto them a lake that they might row away swiftly from such barbaric spectacles, and with any luck, reach New Brunswick, and Rutgers, and girls, and be gentled and comforted and made civilized.

And then came the Army. And they threw the ball forward with great abandon, and great success, and complained that the Navy interfered with their Cadets trying to catch the ball. And the crowds were pleased. And so it was decreed that failing to catch the ball would no longer give the ball to the defense. And the crowd looked upon it and pronounced it good.

And especially so were the race of men known as "bookies." For where interest was great, and passions mighty, the cry soon sprang up, "Put your money where your mouth is!" And someone must hold the bets, then offer to cover the bets, then set the terms. But the adherents of the weak could not be induced to bet against the mighty no matter the odds offered. And so in the bowels of the Statistics Department of that bastion of the actuary, the University of Connecticut, trying to generate enough action against mighty Yale, was born "the point spread." Now a fanatic could think he could win his bet even as his warriors got their brains beat out. Just not as badly as others had thought.

And so the Powers rested content, secure knowing that the inherent superiority of Eastern gentlemen was confirmed upon the mighty gridiron. And so they assembled annually in the mighty city of New York to pick the "best" player of the land, which naturally was East of the Appalachians and North of the Mason-Dixon line, and they named the award for the first great hero, Heismann.

But then, deep in the interior, sprang up those who challenge the given order, and throw things into disarray. And "The Four Horsemen" rode forth from "The Box," and the apostasy they served was Catholic, and its name was Notre Dame, and its mascot was the "Fighting Irish." And the Lords of York wept, and cried out, "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken us?" And their time of glory was no more. But they kept granting the award.

And the State schools took up the game, proud and strong in their new found virility as shown by their wealth and power, and they "recruited" young men of great power, brain optional, that they might fulfill that greatest of wishes, "Beat State!" For the gentlemen of the liberal arts colleges wished to prove to their sweethearts, their wives, and daughters, and unto their rivals, and the other side of the bet, that simply because they gathered gelt in an office, and waxed fat on the fat of they land, they were more stalwart, more potent, than those "Farmers," oft called "Aggies" at the Land Grant Schools of Agriculture.

And the Rubens took great offense and returned contempt Measure for Measure, for they were the sons of those greatly oppressed by lawyers, and bankers, and railroads, and all manner of trusts and monopolies, and they vowed that they would have their revenge by beating out their opponents’ brains and making off with their willing co-eds. Under their breaths they muttered, "To the victor goes the spoils, and she will be spoiling to be spoiled after we spoil their plans." And the girls shrieked, and their bodies trembled, and parts quivered with joy at the prospect of joining with a BMOC, a "Big Man On Campus." And the players vowed that the co-eds should know there were other interpretations to the term, "Triple Threat."

And in those days, the only protection was a thin cap of leather, laughingly called a helmet, that could be folded up into one’s hip pocket, and that served mainly to hide the depth of the wound inflicted when "The Galloping Ghost" left his opponents clutching turf instead of Jersey. And the captain would "call signals" so that those of his side might know the next play with which they would bring great ruin and consternation to the enemy. But at Gaullidet, where the players could not hear signals, as they were all deaf, the players would assemble behind the ball to learn of the next play, and thus was born "the huddle."

And the Stagg led Chicago to great victories over the common weal who attended the great States. But the Golden Gophers and the Wolverines grew mighty in the recruiting wars, picking young men who, when asked for directions to town, pointed out the way. When Coach was asked if that tested for intelligence, sayeth he, "I want to see if they point with the plow." And the Stagg wept, for he knew that his alumni could not offer prospects of support, and jobs, and nubile females enough to continue to entice his "Monsters of the Midway." And so the Maroon withdrew from the lists, muttering, "Nurts, Nurts," which quickly became "Nerd."

And the mania spread with the coming of great games sponsored by the Chambers of Commerce wanting to show off their warm winter climes. And they offered great sums to entice the teams to give up their Holy-days, when they would be celebrating deeply with comely co-eds the victorious season throughout the winter Saturnalia. And to pay such sums, they built great stadiums that could hold entire Cities, and charged great prices for admission, and overcharged for refreshments as sold by hawkers everywhere, and charged businessman for the opportunity to advertise their wares. And because the stadiums were large, and round, and included seats beyond the end-zones where one could see nothing but the hawkers, they called these stadiums "Bowls" and the games, "Bowl Games," and their names were Rose, and Sugar, and Cotton, and Orange. And because the fanatics of the teams could not all journey to the site of the great contest for regional glory, and bragging rights, and swooning females, they invented the "broadcast" and found they could sell ads at great sums on them. And sport and commerce once more assumed their natural posture: joined at the hip.

And the fervor became so great that some gathered together in Akron, Ohio, that great City of rubber and tires in that State that lived and breathed Football, and plotted that they might make more money from the fervor. And thus sprang from the heads of men that ugly duckling known as "The National Football League." But there was no Television, and the loyalties of those with money were largely tied to their alma maters, so attendance was small, paychecks smaller, and franchise moves frequent. There was little interest, and the great men despaired that they should "lose their shirts." For at the time, there were more in attendance and greater sums wagered on two games between the best high school teams of Texas and Ohio than on the entire season of pro games. And the rural Texans returned home with great wealth plundered from the land of many factories.

But the fever grew apace, and it was decided that the boys struggling to "cover the spread" should be inspired by sight of another spread for which they struggled. And so the "cheerleaders" were integrated, with swirling skirts and tight sweaters prominently displayed upon the sidelines. Many a dazed warrior struggling off the field was inspired to "win one for the Gipper" when his face was gently stroked by soft hands, his head cradled against warm, rounded wool, and he heard the words, "You can do it for me, can’t you, Baby?" Never mind that he would be in a coma for the next two weeks and she only went out with members of the backfield while he was of the line.

And half time became more than a time for the fans to line up at the stalls, empty their bladders, and settle their first half bets. Coaches actively inspired and directed their teams while the school bands marched and played. And the band members needed inspiration, so there came into being twirler lines and flag lines, and shorter skirts, and the hawkers found they had more business at inflated prices in the stands. And the word went out: "Smile, girls! Smile!" And a coach known for half time rants sat silent during the twenty minutes, saying nothing to his favored, but losing team. When he rose to leave, he turned to the wet, cold, dirty players and intoned, "Let’s go, girls!" They covered the spread.

And then came the war. Males capable of contesting for the sight and affections of willing co-eds were drafted into the Service, and the champions became Great Lakes, and Randolph Field. And the alums wept, but there was a war on, while the 101^st never held their 1944 Division championship: it was permanently put in the freezer at Bastogne.

But the war brought plastic, and great population shifts, and new voices were heard in the land, emerging from beneath hard helmets, proclaiming that they were the best, the most mighty, the most potent. But Army had returning veterans, and "The Lonesome End," and they prevailed. Until size and immunity to pain overwhelmed them, and they went the way of all Eastern football.

In the middle of the country, fueled by a great wealth of oil, sprang forth a new power, and a new chieftain, and their name was "Sooners" and his name was Wilkerson. And the Lone Star State bitched mightly that he recruited heavily in their territory, but he just smiled as his cheerleaders’ skirts grew shorter. And on the Left Coast, grown fat with war profits and immigration, the Trojan and the Bruin and the Indian and occasionally the Golden Bear competed for dominance against the Mid-West in the Bowl called Rose. And they recruited great hosts, that the other teams might not have them. And to provide sufficient skirted interest to entice the great behemoths, they invented the "pep squad" and the "pom-pom girl." And the girls majored in "Mrs." that they might prove their fecundity and the prowess and loyalty of their mates by frequent displays of distended bellies, for it was the time of the "Baby Boom."

With prosperity came mighty wagers. And coaches were expected not just to win, but to "cover the spread." Where once "running up the score" was considered cause for future retribution, the new cry was: "Do it again! Harder! Harder!" And so the Coaches became Recruiters, casting their nets far and wide, no longer seeking merely the best of their own. And Alums joined with them to promise allowances, and bonuses, and summer jobs, and permanent jobs, and parties with willing co-eds, or, "Hot Dawg!" a trip to the "Best Little Whorehouse" in Wherever.

And pro ball, having settled into the great Cities, began to increase their offers so that youth might not say, "I can do better in Sales." And they discovered the Great God, Television, and Sunday afternoons, so they would not lose out to college games and church. And they struggled, until the Great Unitas united all one snowy evening. For pro football had discovered that a tie was "like kissing your sister," so they decreed the championship game could not thus end. And so they played on, full quarters on, until the Colts of Baltimore vanquished the Giants of New York, and mighty were the losses of the Lords of Gotham, and fat were the profits of Las Vegas.

And so the NCAA decried college ball as too expensive and decreed that unlimited substitution should end and that there should be a return to players playing "both ways" in "a single platoon." And so it was. Briefly. But the fans grew restless and the alumni complained and threatened to reduce their gifts to alma mater, and the Presidents, and Deans, and Chancellors grew frightened. So they declared that one platoon football was as dead as the single wing, but limited the number of oxen wandering around campus by creating scholarship limits. Otherwise, the pom-pom squads would take up too many paying seats.

And for awhile, there was a golden age, when college ball and pro ball lived in harmony. But then a new League was formed, and each placed a team in Dallas. In a few years the owners met to see who would stay and who would leave. The loser must compete for fans with the Methodist Mustangs and the Christian Horn Frogs, while the winner got to slink off to Kansas City. But the pros had fat television packages, and spent freely for players to sell tickets and boost ratings. While the colleges had many packages, and strange blackout rules that prevented their fans from seeing many games. And so the weaker gradually overcame the stronger.

But the Bowls waxed successful, and many were the imitations created. And the Ultimate God, Ratings, which ruled over Television, discovered that fans preferred to watch in comfort as a couch potato rather than freeze in the open, where they could switch to another game once it became obvious which team would "beat the spread." And the Great Inventor thought, and he came forth with the "clicker," or the "channel changer," and the male asserted his authority within his castle by grasping it firmly in one hand, a cold brewski in the other, and learned to "veg out" all weekend. And the women complained that, at least before, they got to dress, and be taken to dinner, and be kissed after scores, and join the victory celebration afterwards or console their dejected one afterwards, but now all they were were shuttles to the fridge, but their complaints fell on deaf ears. And soft members. And the men’s bellies grew great instead of their wives.

And then the Cowboys, desperate for attendance that "Dandy Don" could not provide, discovered Texas’ greatest natural asset: women. Tall women with big, blonde hair, and big, uh, up there, and trim, uh, down there, and who could and would shake, rattle and roll, and who afterwards were perfectly capable of saying, "I have no idea why you think I’m that kind of girl." And could do it so sweetly that males were determined to do anything to make them into that kind of girl, even if it meant marrying them, for C’rissake. And those who did not know the game watched, and dreamed, no drooled, and their wives and girlfriends fumed at "those Texas hussies."

And the Southwest Conference degenerated into Texas and Arkansas, even as The Big Ten degenerated into Michigan and Ohio State, and the Pac-8 fell into USC and UCLA, and the SEC had only ‘Bama. And Notre Dame reigned alone as an "Independent." Mutterings were heard of "national championship playoff" and the Bowls were alarmed, and schools grew fearful for their fund-raising, so there grew up a great cry: "Something Must Be Done." And the NCAA sought a unitary televison package, and reduced the scholarship count, and declared "student-athletes" must be able to chew gum and walk, and they declared "Death Penalties" for any school that repeatedly should break the rules. And the fans cried out, "Enough," and the NAACP cried out, "Discrimination," and the academes prayed that all would be well for a time and a season. But a new threat appeared out of Central Europe, For soccer style kicking of field goals appeared at Princeton as Sir Gogolak of Hungary, and briefly the Tigers returned to glory on the strength of a leg that could score from mid-field.

But the pros discovered their own sources of feminine pulchritude, and they shook their pom-poms, and their pom-poms shimmied, or was that shivered? in Buffalo, and the Leagues merged to produce the Super Bowl. And in the far frozen North, the Great Lombardi intoned, "Winning isn’t the best thing. It’s the only thing!" And the Cowboys froze in the Ice Bowl and the Packers scored and the Cowboys vowed they were willing to let them just to get out of the cold.

But in the fetid jungles, young GI’s dreamed, when they had the chance, that the Cowboy Cheerleaders would come to their Corps with the USO, and that they would not be in the boonies, and that they could go to the show, and that they would be invited up on stage, and they might even be kissed lightly by one of those Goddesses who epitomized all that they hoped to return to even if they hadn’t come from there, and it would be better than another week of R&R of titty-titty bang-bang. Cause you didn’t have to have gone to college to see those girls, who looked as much honey pot as any Playboy model, but these you could take out, and men would look at you with envy, and women with respect, and you knew, just knew, they would see how good you would be for them, and they would, only for you, you know, and it would be better than any slant whore could even dream of.

And then there was the frustration of playing for the quintessential hapless team, the Temple Owls. Owls, for C’rissake, who was ever afraid of Owls? And they played Hofstra, who looked like Cyclops, were called Igor, and ate raw meat. All they wanted us to do was: "don’t touch certain parts of your body." For C’rsisakes, there wouldn’t even be those body parts after they finished. There wouldn’t be enough left for that flat chested English major with stringy hair and zits to console her fallen hero, much less action with a real babe with a real bod. Christ, even your Mother wasn’t going to be able to identify your body after this one. Vaguely you had heard tales from your uncles of landings and dead strewn on the tide, and you knew, just knew, you weren’t getting off this beach. "Ave, Caesar! We who are about to die salute you!"

And the pros expanded, and the owners learned to gouge taxpayers for stadiums rather than build their own, and to move franchises for fun and profit. The Bowl games continued to expand, and the grumblings for a national playoff in Division I-A as in for the smaller schools grew apace. And the NCAA found the Methodist Mustangs’ alumni in an orgy of violations to fulfill their great desire to "Beat Texas!," and they administered the "Death Penalty," then shrank back in horror, crying, "My God, what have we done?" And they slank away, vowing to sin no more, for Ratings could not stand another execution.

And the high schools grew to have coaching staffs like colleges, and the boys were held back so they could get bigger, and they pumped iron, and they were certified as "learning disabled" so they didn’t have to take regular classes, and they took steroids so they bulked up like a pro wrestler, and the coaches decided that abstaining from sex didn’t really improve your performance, except maybe the day of the game.

And the girls saw cheerleading and drill team and pep squad could lead to bucks, or modeling, or maybe acting, if you had it and were willing to flaunt it. Besides you couldn’t rely on a man anyway and what did you need them for, so let’s have fun. And if you had a kid, if he were a pro, the child support could keep you flashy and happy until you found another guy. And wasn’t sex all there was between a guy and a gal anyway? Except it would be nice to be loved, and respected, and supported when things got tough, and feel that you mattered, but that never happens anyway except in that "happily ever after" BS. So let’s party hearty, ‘cause lookin’ good is all there is. You’d ask Mom, but she’s too busy since the divorce and you don’t want to be a burden she’ll get mad at, ‘cause she might make you move out and she’s all you’ve got. But maybe that hunk, he had a good game, will care, and if you have a kid, they’ll have to give a damn. So Carpe Diem! She thinks it means fish are ten cents a pound but it sounds cool.

Football moved indoors, conferences folded, others expanded, the Bowls were organized into a quasi-championship format, the players got bigger, and blacker as another underclass found another athletic endeavor to move up and out. The rules changed to "make the game more entertaining" and to protect "franchise players" (he’s gone and so are my ticket sales, and worse, my hawker profits) from catastrophic injury. Coaches still tell players to "play through the pain" (ignore your body telling you your knee will permanently flop forward if you keep doing this). Pro Football decided they need a development league, the colleges weren’t enough of a farm system, so they tried to interest Europeans in "Not Yet’s, Never Were’s, and Has Been’s." And the Europeans sayeth, "We may be dumb, but we aren’t stupid."

Cheerleading changed from all guys, to mixed groups, to all gals, back to mixed groups. Cheerleaders went from sparkplugs for the crowd; to "aren’t they even aware of what’s going on?"; to "what’s going on is irrelevant." Cheerleading is now neither cheering nor leading, having turned into the jongleur sideshow with a life of its own, gymnastics to distract and entertain whenever there’s a lull in the action. Professional cheerleaders with less practice time are dance squads, a chorus line, not to be confused with a Greek Chorus, invoked for the same reason. From being an integral part of the community in support of the effort of the few who represent it, they have, in seeking a "bigger" role, grown apart from the commonality.

For boys, the lower levels of contest serve as a testing, not only of physical pecking orders, but of their willingness to persevere, to improve the ability to contest, if not win. Publicity and general acclaim hangs on those who survive the contests to move up, eventually to lose or conquer all as in the legends. But being able to win some confirms to the competitors and their supporters that there is life in the middle, winning some, losing some, persevering against odds, winning respect for at least "there was no quit in them." Some girls wish to join in, and some do in specialized roles or until light dawns that "the cake is not worth the candle."

For girls, incapable of physically competing without certain injury, cheerleading, pep squads, drill teams, twirlers, flag squads or what have you provide an entree into the common effort. At a primal level, the community feels that if it wills it strongly enough, strength will pass onto their champions, that they will be able to prevail or suffer less harm. The urge in some is to do something, whether it is roll bandages, or send care packages, or dress wounds, or spy out the land, or carry water, or step in when her man falls, but do something, not just admire from afar. The feeling exists that only by doing can any part of the victory be claimed by right, that the duty to endure and survive is not sufficient.

Boys dream from afar of impressing their intended, of strutting victorious among prostrate girls begging to be chosen. That dies with the first hit, the first realization that there has to be a better way to accomplish that. Girls dream from afar of all vanquishing heroes, carrying their tokens, returning to lay the fruits of victory at their feet, saying, "All this for you." That vanishes in the tedium, in the self-centered humanity of the conqueror who wishes only to hear praises of his sacrifices and retellings of his deeds.

Instead of Lochinvar, and Guinevere, of knights in shining armor questing for the hand of a wealthy and beautiful Princess by conquering all to save the land, youth dream of other fields of glory, of royalty by acclamation, and if the agile and hostile are united with the nubile and fertile, all will be well. And those who are not worthy to enter the lists, admire, and envy, and dream of comeuppance, and vow that one day they will be vindicated by their offspring. And most of the champions find their hour of glory is short, that when it is past, few wish to hear of what was, or what might have been. For the crowd has new heroes on which to wager, new would be queens to admire and pursue, and it is then that they discover the One Great Truth: "Life Goes On."

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Sydney Michelle. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.