And The Battle Rages On...

This past sunday, a group of sixteen brave soldiers trudged onto a battlefied brown with the winter's death. We came from all parts of the valley, with tape and water bottles and cleats. Sixteen men, putting our reputations on the line in a war most of us were not prepared to fight.

It had been awhile since I had last strapped on the boots. The motion of attack had long faded and was but a sweet memory. The emergancy manuvers that had once been instinct had now become something of a chore and took more time.

As the battle lines were drawn, the anticipation grew. Men who had been mortals a mere hour preceding, had now become immortal gods on the eternal scales of a gridiron.

This was serious. This was a war.

With flags.

Okay, so it wasn't the epic event I was hoping for, but it was epic in other ways. Football is unique among most modern popular sports. With baseball, it only takes two to get together with a couple of mitts and make sport of it. With basketball, hockey, and soccer, you can literally practice by yourself. But not football.

Sure, you can toss the pigskin back and forth, but that is nothing like the assault that takes place after the ball has been snapped. Or the feeling of invincibility as you catch the touchdown pass. With football, it takes a concentrated effort of coordination. It isn't something that is just going to spontaneously errupt after a trip to starbucks.

When you are going to engage in this competition of greatness, you make the appointment days, if not weeks, ahead of time, ensuring the proper warriors of kinship are present. And the anticipation builds.

The last time I threw a ball in competition was during football intramurals at Johnson Bible College. It's amazing how quickly the throwing motion comes back. The instinct of linemen breathing down your neck, forcing you to scramble and throw a pass you have no business throwing. Your body cracks as the rust breaks free.

But then, you catch the receiver's eye. You know what he's thinking. He makes a break. You cock your arm and release with the power of a man's arm. And it all comes back. Poetry in motion.

The war was hard fought. And when the final whistle blew, the combatents threw their arms around each other and vowed to meet again in a couple of weeks...

After the soreness wore off.