Confessions of a football dad

MY DREAM team has Sid Luckman at quarterback and Bill Cosby at fullback. (Can you name his college team?) It has Vince Lombardi pacing the sidelines like an angry little priest. In the owner’s box is old man Halas, pro football’s radical intellectual, the Thomas Paine of the modern game.

This is what I think about when I’m stuck in traffic or at some stuffy dinner party. I think about football the way other men hunger over Scarlett Johansson’s silhouette.

Face it: Men are pigskins.

“Hut,” says the quarterback.

“Did he say hut?” the center asks.

“Just hike the bleepin’ ball!” says the QB.

Today, we are on a scruffy little piece of schoolyard prairie, the warm afternoon air punctuated by the death sighs of men better suited to office chairs and airplane seats. There are a dozen dads, lovable knuckleheads every one. Lord knows what’s going on in their cold tiny hearts. Still, once a week we assemble here to toss the ball around and feel our age. Which, of course, is 12.

“Do these pants make me look fat?” a defender asks as we line up for another play.

“Hike,” says the quarterback.

I’m not 100% today. I pulled a hamstring watching that Boise State masterpiece, the one everyone’s still talking about. Jumped right out of my easy chair without so much as stretching. Touchdown! Ouch! Medic!

I’m sure I was not alone. Earth wobbled a little that day -- millions of guys jumping in millions of dens, nachos flying everywhere. Has there ever been a better ending? “Casablanca”? The first “Rocky”?

The Boise State miracle goes to show that when football is at its best, there is nothing better. It’s as American as stew simmering on the stove.

Thing is, when football is at its worst, it’s still pretty good. It may be the only major sport that is virtually idiot-proof.

“Hut-hut,” says the quarterback.

“Ouch,” says a receiver, pulling a quad while bending slightly to scratch himself.

Our little Sunday league is an odd collection of goofballs, who dress in old Raiders jerseys, Colgate T-shirts and ratty sweats. It is the way 10-year-old boys would dress all the time if they had no mothers.

There’s T-Bone, who tapes up every finger and all his toes, beginning three days before the game. It’s a way of increasing his bone density, while remaining remarkably supple at the same time.

There’s Don David Booty, who recently blocked a pass with his face while blitzing. Talk about courage. Talk about a quick facial.

There’s Dave -- just Dave -- a JPL project manager, the smartest guy in any huddle. And Goldberg, an investment specialist dubbed “Goldfingers” for his fine catches. In fact, we may be the only sports league in existence in which the Jewish guys dominate.

“He was out of bounds!” says Applebaum. “Out of bounds!”

“I was in,” insists Comstock.

“I’m pretty sure he was in,” says Eisen.

Disputes like this are easily resolved. Traditionally, the team with the most players in the vicinity of any controversial play wins the dispute, by sheer force of their ridiculous behavior. It really has nothing to do with whether they are right are wrong. In that way, our games are very much like life itself.

“Hike,” says the quarterback.

“Huh?” asks the center.

“HIKE!”

“I’ll hike it when I’m ready,” the center says.

We play a different brand of football than, say, guys who have actual cartilage left in their knees. Short slant patterns are popular, and there is an inexplicable number of tipped passes.

In fact, there have been times when the football has been touched once by almost every player on the field -- offense and defense -- before coming to rest in a pair of hands more accustomed to cradling a Blackberry. The ball then hits the ground. Thud.

“Nice reflexes,” the defender will tease.

“Bite me,” says the tailback.

We’ve been doing this for seven years now, enduring our spouses’ looks of derision as we lace up our cleats each Sunday.

They no doubt envy our second boyhoods, our inner Huck Finns. Each game day, there is a newfound spring in our steps, a little rouge of winter in our cheeks.

Late in the afternoon we’ll limp home, warriors in an unwinnable war -- the one against middle age.

“Honey, did you land on your head again?” my wife asks.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just you?” I tell her.

“He landed on his head,” the boy says.

“Dad, your leg is bleeding,” says the little girl.

“Trainer!” I yell.

“Go get Daddy a beer,” their mother orders.

See? Idiot-proof.

Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected]. His MySpace address is myspace.com/chriserskine.