Everybody goes through puberty. It’s a basic part of human development. Growth spurts abound, resulting in monthly trips for new shoes and jeans. Voices deepen and/or squeak. Hair appears where no hair appeared before. And pimples erupt overnight. It’s a fun time.
When I was in the eighth grade (on the entry-level side of my journey through puberty) I went out for the junior high football team. I knew very little about football except that several of my friends were “going out” for the team so I decided to “go out” as well. “Going out” really meant “showing up.” There were not cuts. Everybody made the team. On the first day of practice we were all issued practice uniforms. We were supplied with everything that we needed (pants, a jersey, hip pads, shoulder pads, thigh pads, knee pads and a helmet) except for shoes and a “jock strap”. I had an older cousin, Gary, who played football. He had outgrown a pair of his football cleats so I inherited his. After I stuffed some cotton in the toes of the shoes, they fit fine. As far a “jock strap”, I got a new one. For most of us, “jock straps” were a decoration. For others, they provided a true sense of security.
After uniforms were issued, and we were dressed for practice, we went out for warm ups. Warm ups amounted to a series of jumping jacks, push ups, leg lifts, hip rolls, arch your back drills and wind sprints. After that we did some one on one drills. After the warms ups were complete, we were all assembled and the moment of truth arrived. We were asked what positions we wished to play. I had never give that any thought. I was there because Bill and Mitch were there. That’s it.
The coaches began the proceedings by asking all the guys who planned on being “a running back” to step forward. I wasn’t fast so I didn’t that didn’t appeal to me. “Center” was another position. I really didn’t know what the center did but it sounded like it was the focus of attention, so I wasn’t interested in that. “End” sounded too far away from the action, so I passed on that opportunity as well. “Tackle” didn’t sound like a good option either. I assumed that “tackle” meant that you tackled people and I wasn’t interested in the potential violence. “Guard” sounded more noble to me. I could “guard” people. Only three guys stepped forward. I would make the fourth and that fact increased my chance of seeing some action. I took a step forward and I became “a guard”.
All of my prior experience playing football took place at the park or the street in front of our home. Most games were three on three or four on four. One guy hiked the ball, a second threw it, and all remaining players ran passing routes that took them towards the blue car with a cut inside or wide left towards the fire hydrant. Two hand touch below the waist was the ultimate defensive goal.
Organized football is a different beast. No one counts 1,000 -1, 1,000 – 2, 1,000 3 before they rush. (later replaced by 1 Mississippi , 2 Mississippi, etc.) It’s a dirty game. I’m not talking about sportsmanship. I’m talking about plain old dirt.
One evening when I came home from practice, my mother was shocked when I climbed the three back steps leading into the kitchen. “Come with me to the bathroom.” I followed mom to the bathroom and she told me to “Look in the mirror.” Smack dab in the middle of my forehead was the biggest pimple I had ever seen. I had seen pimples on others, acne even, but never on me. The pimple aligned perfectly with the spot where my football helmet touched the middle of my forehead. The only logical explanation for my current medical condition was a combination of football sweat, dirt, and all of the body oils within my body converging on a single spot. The pimple erupted at the direct center point of my forehead which had a small dent that developed from wearing the football helmet. Apparently, body oils seek dented spots on your face.
Shock of shocks, mom broke the dam of pent-up body oil and my pimple was gone. All that remained was a red spot where a pimple the size of a nickel had resided only moments before.
After dinner mom when to the drug store and when she returned she had a bottle of liquid soap, Phisohex. She produced the new soap and a piece of steel wool and told me to wash my face. “Scrub until you can’t scrub anymore, take a drink of water, rest, and start scrubbing again. You need to do this at least twice a day until you turn twenty-one.” This directive meant that I was looking at eight years of scrubbing.
My eighth grade grandson, Brady, is playing junior high football now. In contrast to me, he knows a lot about football. He knows all of the positions, where everyone is supposed to line up during each play, and each player’s primary assignment. He has been playing safety on defense and a wide receiver on offense. He’s also the backup quarterback. Last week the starting quarterback was injured so Brady will be starting this week. He’s excited and I’m happy for him.
Prior to last week’s game, his mom told Ruth and me that Brady discovered his first pimple. I am very confident that this is the result of sweat, football dirt, and all of the body oils in his body converging upon a single location.
Brady told his mom about his pimple discovery. He also said something like, “Mom, now that I have pimples, I expect that armpit hair will appear very soon.” That’s probably true. My advice to Brady is very simple. Be on the lookout for Phisohex and steel wool. The armpit hair will take care of itself.