I can remember those Thanksgiving days, back in the seventies and early eighties in our neighborhood in Sandy Hook, CT. Yes, that Sandy Hook. in fact, Sandy Hook Elementary was my school. But, that is another tale. It was a time of big cars, hot rods, and rock and roll. It was the time of my youth. It was the time of a smaller seeming world; no internet, no cable tv — only two or three channels if you were lucky — we had rotary antennas. We played football.
We all looked forward to the holiday of course. The family coming in from all over, the food, the crackling fire in the fireplace, the eggnog and cookies and pies, the quiet in the neighborhood.
Each year that quiet would be shattered by about a dozen young voices echoing off the small hills around the community called Shady Rest. We neighborhood kids would gather first in the morning while our moms were getting the afternoon supper together.
I would quickly eat some eggs and toast, savoring the smell already consuming the house. Mom was busy. Uncle Bob was due around noon with my grandparents. I ate, and hopped on my Huffy, sailed down our unsafely steep driveway, down Walnut Tree Hill, and turned the corner into the neighborhood at full speed
The Morris’ property was a large flat yard. Mostly all grass and dog shit with a few large spruce trees to one side, road on the other. It was nearly the exact size of a football field.
So, around ten we’d meet there. Our parents allowed us out before the afternoon meal as long as we were home by whatever time we were told. If we dallied we’d get the call: Old school, screamed at top volume by dad, across the neighborhood, or a piercing whistle. You knew it was time to get home, or else.
Our games were violent and ruthless. Bones were broken, blood spilled, feelings hurt, and egos squashed. But, that’s the way it was then. We lived like little animals when outside of the boundaries of our parents. We were thrill seekers risking our young lives regularly on dares and feats of adventure. We roamed around with firearms and knives, we set fires,and threw rocks at girls. Some of the older crowd my brothers age, would strip cars down to just the frame and drivetrain; tear-assing around the neighborhood with five or six guys hanging on with shotguns and M-80’s, beer, and weed. Serious trouble back then. But, we didn’t live in an effective police state then either. Again, that’s another story.
In those years, especially in the seventies, the ground would be frozen rock hard by Thanksgiving, and even the ball seemed as hard as stone. But we didn’t care, we were living out the boyhood fantasies to be like our heroes in the National Football League.
The first fights started right off. Choosing teams.
There were about a dozen of us at that time. Me, Joey, Bobby, Ollie, David, Mickey, Danny and Mike, and several slightly older and younger kids whose names elude me now. First, we choose who-was-on-what team, which basically was a set thing, only changing if someone had played really well in one of our previous and frequent games. This would usually involve a lot of jeering, insults, pushing, and “fistiness”. But that wasn’t the real fight. This would be over who would play the part of . . . The Cowboys. Almost every boy had a poster of the Cowboys at that time. Sure we liked other teams, but The Cowboys. Though, in all fairness, for the few rare times I fought my way to play quarterback, I would play the part of Fran Tarkenton from the Vikings. Mainly though, it was who would get to be Staubach, who would be Dorsett, etc. This could be viscous, and usually it was violence that solved this. Occasionally, we would shed a few players to hurt feelings, or bloody noses at this point.
Eventually it was game time.
Just like our heroes we lined up face to face, breath rising into the frozen morning air, kneeling, waiting, sizing each other up, sizing the play up.
Then, the WORD.
HIKE!
The neighborhood would erupt into sudden screaming as bodies moved and postured, legs ran and pushed; the ball leaving fingertips, is airborne again. Things would seem to instantly slow amidst the din. The ball in the air, eyes upward, arms outstretched, lungs emptying and filling, running. Then like a firecracker, wham, it was caught. The receiver would turn, and the flight to the end zone between the telephone pole and end of the fence on the Trudeau’s land would ensue, one foot down, second foot, third, then an immediate pummeling into that frozen turf. We would play the morning away. Only stopping for disputes, or injury. Several fingers were broken there, and at least one wrist.
I myself walked away from some of those games bleeding from my arms, or face, or ears. I would be coated in green from head to toe from the grass, and typically also covered in dog shit as that yard was a favored open pooping range for several neighborhood dogs. It was like a minefield of merde. Some were old and frozen, some were from that morning. Either pain or stink — it was a shitty landing.
But those are all beautiful moments. Moments that escape the pace of youth. But moments you remember and cherish with age.
I hadn’t thought about those times, those football games in years till today; Thanksgiving Day, watching the afternoon game, here in COVIDtime. Those sorts of life memories are like no others. I could smell the neighborhood, see the way the November light fell through the towering oaks of Walnut Tree Hill and Shady Rest, hear the hot rods racing up the road. I could almost smell snow in the air.
So on this day I challenge you to this:
Take a moment to stop and *observe* . . . you. Where you are, what you are doing, how it feels and smells, who is with you.
You just never know when you’re banking gold.
Set one, set two, set . . . HIKE!
Happiest of the whole holiday season to you all.
WJM
William J Mullen 