John can't make the cut in his wingtips

 John can't make the cut in his wingtips





      One of the obligatory activities for kids who watched football on the rather new TV's of the 1950's and 60's was the release of pent-up energy at halftime or game's end. The same  could be said about boys who were home with babysitters or grandmas who were not as severe in obedience to house rules. The scene at McNerney was no different and many times I was out front with Jack and Greg throwing a well-worn pigskin or pretending to be Jon Arnett or Billy Kilmer calling out signals to our teams. We also liked to talk a good game but none of us actually wanted to feel the pain of true football. So this tale is one that Greg loved to have me tell so he could laugh heartily at one image we kept alive over 60 years. It was a nice California Sunday with a sedentary couple of hours behind us as we charged into the front lawn of McNerney to pretend a little NFL football. This was never done silently and we always announced our "games" like Bob Kelly or Gil Stratton and the contact was just a pantomine of the bone-jarring in actual contests. The three of us were playing goal-line stand where Jack was Jim Taylor of  the Packers and Greg and I were defensive brutes like "after the whistle" Les Richter or Sam Huff trying to deny the bulldozing fullback from getting across the goal line. I was roughing the ball carrier and was too energetic while tackling Jack who fell on top of Greg awkwardly, causing little brother to howl in pain. It truly was completely my fault but John who had stopped to see the action thought Jack was bullying little Greg. John yelled angrily and Jack showed no remorse since he really was not at fault. This set in motion a scene where an enfuriated Dad bellowed at older brother and took off toward him with malice in his heart. Jack knew not to tangle with the old Cathedral footballer and took off like a jackrabbit toward the Williams house. John pursued but just as he hit the sidewalk and attempted to make a cut to the right his hard shoes failed to make purchase on the concrete and he was airborne sideways. He thudded to the ground and cursed with Jack now several houses away. It was about as pissed as I ever saw the old man get but he simmered down and eventually we continued to play our mock football with the Dad lighting up another Lucky Strike in the front room. The snapshot of the enfuriated Dad in mid-air always struck Greg as hysterically funny and caused him to laugh that laugh that comes from the gut. The truth is neither Jack nor Greg were ever beaten by their Dad whose roar was fearsome but his bite was non-existent.




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