I'm doing a series of stories called: TALES FROM A NEARLY NORMAL CHILDHOOD ... this is one I thought the board might enjoy for a short summer read ...
ELECTRIC FOOTBALL
Combine all the other games that occupied my time in youth, and they?d still trail my favorite: Electric Football. From first through seventh grade, there were times my life revolved around this game. It was my closest contact to a cult.
Electric football, as simple as it was, could be confounding to newcomers. Green metal vibrating field; power screw in one end zone; anorexic quarterback/punters; fuzz balls for pigskins; men who couldn?t run ten yards without heading for the sidelines (?Get away from the cheerleaders!? we?d scream); aggravating goal posts that would break loose and topple ballcarriers; those were just a sampling of the game?s intricacies.
Electric football, like G.I. Joe, was strictly for boys. Barbies and Suzy Homemakers were for girls. That was the toy code when I grew up.
I loved Electric Football beyond all comprehension. I?d save up money and send away to Grosse Pointe for additional players, filling out the black and blue division (Packers, Bears, Lions and Vikings) and align them along with the Colts, Browns, 49ers and Giants. And those were just the Deluxe models--the fancy painted and fully uniformed men. For years, I had guided the cumbersome Standard models, plain white and yellow men. I had scores of them from abandoned fields I received every Christmas, as it usually took about ten months to wear out the previous field?s power pack. So I was buried in men and formed leagues and round robin schedules complete with standings and kickoff return charts. Homer Jones, #45 for the New York Giants, finished with an unheard of 124 life time kickoff returns for touchdowns.
There were other legends to be sure. Gale Sayers (nicknamed ESP) would amaze even casual onlookers when he?d seemingly head to the sidelines, then suddenly right himself--sniffing chalk or feeling his anthropomorphous gearworks scream ?Run Forrest, run!?--and tack toward the goal line, dodging hoodwinked defenders . . . Carl Eller #81 was a hulking end for the Vikings who could run through plaster if provoked . . . Boyd Dowler was an uncanny runner with a knack for big plays, leading his Green Bay clubs to many championships . . . Chip on the Shoulder (so named for the mutant chunk of plastic that bulged from his left shoulder) #48 yellow Standard was a stiff-arming fool to be avoided at all costs in the open field . . . No. 16 white Standard was bulldozing guard, squat and relentless. Whenever I staged my strongest men competitions (lining up the participants on the fifty and seeing who?d push the opponent backwards) #16 white Standard always won.
I played Electric Football with the passion of a berserk painter holed up in his loft, stroking and jabbering with each brush of greatness. Once, two men hit each other so hard they both timbered like old growth. Another time, #45 white Standard followed his blocking as if he, not Vince Lombardi, had drawn up the famed Packer sweep.
At night, often times I?d shut off all my lights, save a lamp, which I?d place directly over the field for the illusion of night games. It worked. The men always played harder--or so I wanted to imagine.
When friends would call on Saturday afternoons wanting to goof off with me, I?d often tell members of my family to lie for me, fib I wasn?t home. The game must go on. I might still have half the schedule to complete. No time my pals Jim Goodson or Bob Moss.
There was one major tragedy during my playing days. My evil older brother, Jeff, and his twisted buddy, Lane Simmons, challenged me to a game one lazy summer afternoon. Their men were like the Ethiopian army compared to my crack troops. I destroyed them in the neighborhood of 50-6. I didn?t gloat, but was very proud and packed my men away in their travel shoebox and returned them to my room, and then I went outside to play.
When I returned later on, I discovered my sadistic brother and Simmons had taken a knife and cut off all the prongs (the plastics quivers that enable the men to run) to a handful of my best players. I was crushed, immediately breaking into crocodile tears.
I wasn?t a tattletale, but this was beyond human decency, and I rushed into my dad?s bedroom when he came home from work to tell him what happened.
?They ruined my best guys, Dad,? I sputtered, my eyes still swollen with grief. ?I beat those jerks fair and square and then they cut off the prongs to my stars.?
My dad was in his suit, undressing from a long day?s work. He was probably as sympathetic as I can ever remember. I was half blubbering and I could see he was trying to grasp what the hell his ten-year-old son was carrying on about. ?That?s horrible,? he said. Then he pulled out his billfold and peeled off a five-dollar bill. ?Here, take this and buy some more men.?
It was a heartfelt gesture, but it didn?t help.
?But, Dad. You just can?t buy great men. They come assembled through luck from their attachable base, and it all depends on whether their prongs are just right.?
My dad gave me this look like he understood, but as I look back on it I?m sure he wanted to say, ?Get a grip.?
?I understand, son.? Then he removed a few ones and offered them to me.
?No, Dad. Money won?t bring them back.? At that point, I left his company, returned to my room, and collapsed on my bed in an oblivion of childhood pain.
Was I ever embarrassed that as a thirteen-year-old boy I was still playing a game I?d first fallen in love with as a first grader? Of course, but that?s what made it even better. I could keep on being a kid, a happy boy who marveled at plastic men performing remarkable deeds. And in this timeless cocoon, I?d shout platitudes and scold my men, all the while mixing in unmatched verbal documentation--at least in affection--that any booth jockey would be privileged to consider.
THE END
ELECTRIC FOOTBALL
Combine all the other games that occupied my time in youth, and they?d still trail my favorite: Electric Football. From first through seventh grade, there were times my life revolved around this game. It was my closest contact to a cult.
Electric football, as simple as it was, could be confounding to newcomers. Green metal vibrating field; power screw in one end zone; anorexic quarterback/punters; fuzz balls for pigskins; men who couldn?t run ten yards without heading for the sidelines (?Get away from the cheerleaders!? we?d scream); aggravating goal posts that would break loose and topple ballcarriers; those were just a sampling of the game?s intricacies.
Electric football, like G.I. Joe, was strictly for boys. Barbies and Suzy Homemakers were for girls. That was the toy code when I grew up.
I loved Electric Football beyond all comprehension. I?d save up money and send away to Grosse Pointe for additional players, filling out the black and blue division (Packers, Bears, Lions and Vikings) and align them along with the Colts, Browns, 49ers and Giants. And those were just the Deluxe models--the fancy painted and fully uniformed men. For years, I had guided the cumbersome Standard models, plain white and yellow men. I had scores of them from abandoned fields I received every Christmas, as it usually took about ten months to wear out the previous field?s power pack. So I was buried in men and formed leagues and round robin schedules complete with standings and kickoff return charts. Homer Jones, #45 for the New York Giants, finished with an unheard of 124 life time kickoff returns for touchdowns.
There were other legends to be sure. Gale Sayers (nicknamed ESP) would amaze even casual onlookers when he?d seemingly head to the sidelines, then suddenly right himself--sniffing chalk or feeling his anthropomorphous gearworks scream ?Run Forrest, run!?--and tack toward the goal line, dodging hoodwinked defenders . . . Carl Eller #81 was a hulking end for the Vikings who could run through plaster if provoked . . . Boyd Dowler was an uncanny runner with a knack for big plays, leading his Green Bay clubs to many championships . . . Chip on the Shoulder (so named for the mutant chunk of plastic that bulged from his left shoulder) #48 yellow Standard was a stiff-arming fool to be avoided at all costs in the open field . . . No. 16 white Standard was bulldozing guard, squat and relentless. Whenever I staged my strongest men competitions (lining up the participants on the fifty and seeing who?d push the opponent backwards) #16 white Standard always won.
I played Electric Football with the passion of a berserk painter holed up in his loft, stroking and jabbering with each brush of greatness. Once, two men hit each other so hard they both timbered like old growth. Another time, #45 white Standard followed his blocking as if he, not Vince Lombardi, had drawn up the famed Packer sweep.
At night, often times I?d shut off all my lights, save a lamp, which I?d place directly over the field for the illusion of night games. It worked. The men always played harder--or so I wanted to imagine.
When friends would call on Saturday afternoons wanting to goof off with me, I?d often tell members of my family to lie for me, fib I wasn?t home. The game must go on. I might still have half the schedule to complete. No time my pals Jim Goodson or Bob Moss.
There was one major tragedy during my playing days. My evil older brother, Jeff, and his twisted buddy, Lane Simmons, challenged me to a game one lazy summer afternoon. Their men were like the Ethiopian army compared to my crack troops. I destroyed them in the neighborhood of 50-6. I didn?t gloat, but was very proud and packed my men away in their travel shoebox and returned them to my room, and then I went outside to play.
When I returned later on, I discovered my sadistic brother and Simmons had taken a knife and cut off all the prongs (the plastics quivers that enable the men to run) to a handful of my best players. I was crushed, immediately breaking into crocodile tears.
I wasn?t a tattletale, but this was beyond human decency, and I rushed into my dad?s bedroom when he came home from work to tell him what happened.
?They ruined my best guys, Dad,? I sputtered, my eyes still swollen with grief. ?I beat those jerks fair and square and then they cut off the prongs to my stars.?
My dad was in his suit, undressing from a long day?s work. He was probably as sympathetic as I can ever remember. I was half blubbering and I could see he was trying to grasp what the hell his ten-year-old son was carrying on about. ?That?s horrible,? he said. Then he pulled out his billfold and peeled off a five-dollar bill. ?Here, take this and buy some more men.?
It was a heartfelt gesture, but it didn?t help.
?But, Dad. You just can?t buy great men. They come assembled through luck from their attachable base, and it all depends on whether their prongs are just right.?
My dad gave me this look like he understood, but as I look back on it I?m sure he wanted to say, ?Get a grip.?
?I understand, son.? Then he removed a few ones and offered them to me.
?No, Dad. Money won?t bring them back.? At that point, I left his company, returned to my room, and collapsed on my bed in an oblivion of childhood pain.
Was I ever embarrassed that as a thirteen-year-old boy I was still playing a game I?d first fallen in love with as a first grader? Of course, but that?s what made it even better. I could keep on being a kid, a happy boy who marveled at plastic men performing remarkable deeds. And in this timeless cocoon, I?d shout platitudes and scold my men, all the while mixing in unmatched verbal documentation--at least in affection--that any booth jockey would be privileged to consider.
THE END
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