Play Golf, Dear Child

Disclaimer: this is the writing of a non-athletic personal coward.

I don’t like pain.  I avoid physical confrontation (although I thrive on verbal confrontation).  I dread the thought of scratches and bruises. And I’m not anxious to prove my strength.  (I have recent personal knowledge that even arm-wrestling can be dangerous.)

But I show up to watch.  No matter what sport my children and grandchildren have played, I have been on the sidelines.  Not at every game, but I have sampled each activity as a spectator.  I am the woman in the bleachers who forgets to cheer because I am holding my breath until my chosen player is off of the ground and walking, hopefully without a limp.

Let’s talk football.  My boys started playing in grade school.  In those years I had power:  I made them wear purple socks so that I could find them on the little field where they played.

My daughter played one powder puff game.  (Bad name for a violent event.)  And when the boys were older and one son had wisely chosen to play golf instead of exposing himself to huge men in hard gear who wanted to hit him, tackle him. butt him with helmets and pile on top of him; I thought I was free.

I was celebrating the end of football.  Last game finished.*  Last footballer son safely at the pizza parlor with his friends (I thought).  Then, standing next to  my friend/physician, I heard his pager beeping.

“Help, Herb”, I heard my boy’s croaking voice.

Seems he had suffered a concussion during the game.  Heartsick and worried we rushed to the emergency room where we spent the next hours in suspense.

So you know how I feel about football.

How about soccer?  Well, one would think that it is just an active sport without physical contact.  Safe.  Speedy.  Only the ball gets kicked. Well, perhaps some extreme cases of dehydration from running non-stop on hot days without sufficient water, but still.

That is, until you see how many times the ball is missed and the shins are in action.  Or the nudge and shove when the referee is looking the other way.  Or the voluntary smack of the ball with the head.  A header?  What’s up with that?  Haven’t these parents read Dr. Amen’s books on brain health?  Really?

Baseball?  Strained arms from pitching too much too young.  Gravel permanently embedded in thighs from sliding.  Kidney punches from fast pitches.

Basketball?  Volleyball?  Gymnastics?  You name it…there is grief.  Just watch the NCAA’s if you think basketball is a gentle sport. Collisions. Falls. Broken bones. Abrasions.  Concussions.

I have now seen the most brutal of all.  Up until my grandson’s Lacrosse game I had given that prize to football.

But no.  I watched young men dressed in a minimum of padding and gear beat each other with sticks.  In case you have missed this sport, when a player is holding the ball (?) he falls prey to as many members of the opposite team as can surround him.  They beat him about the head, shoulders, legs and torso. People would be arrested for doing this on the street.  It would fall in the classification of a hate crime.   No kidding!

I’ve thought this over carefully and I repeat what I have told each my grandchildren since they dragged their little clubs around the course with me.  Play golf.  Barring a lightning storm, it’s safe.  Men do it.  Women do it.  If you can’t afford a round, go hit a bucket of balls.  You can start when you’re young and play it until you die…of natural causes.

That’s my cowardly story and I’m sticking to it!

xxoo

*This was proven wrong.  Two of my grandsons have played football.  Sadly, I just heard that my youngest will be playing in the fall, so it isn’t over yet!