Awww... Rub Some Dirt On It
by Bill Simmons
There is a Difference between Pain and Injury!” bellowed Coach Wallace, my 6th grade football coach between“Bear-crawls”, “Up-Downs” and “Oklahoma” drills.
This mantra and 5-6 salt tablets before practice represented the height
of medical sports knowledge back
in 1975.
As a linebacker, “Getting Your Bell Rung” was kind of the whole point of
football for me. In retrospect, this approach to full contact sports “explains a lot” about my present day mental lapses. And if you doubt me, just ask “She Who Runs the Family Schedule.” The
proverbial needle has moved a bit since then, of course, what with MRIs
and CAT scans being available at the corner Quik Stop and vast legions
of Sports Medicine professionals on standby just itching to put Junior
in their marvelous medical billing systems.
The extension of the 5-Second Food Rule applies—if Junior is on the
ground longer than 5 seconds it has officially gone bad.
But enough already about the kids. They are mostly made of MemoryFoam
anyway. The Real problem is Youth Sports Parents Injuries!
Our reflexes are shot; we bruise like week-old bananas.
Balance? That’s something that occasionally, hopefully, happens to the
checking account. Heck, I broke an ankle playing H-O-R-S-E with my 11
year old! Not my proudest
athletic moment.
Remember the first time Junior pitched from the mound to you? Shins are
not supposed to look like purple vegetables. Have you ever taught a
6-year-old to cast a fishing lure? Do the words “treble hook” now bring
on tremors? Is there a Disabled List for youth baseball coaches with
Coach-Pitch Knee (where tiny red pebbles are repeatedly ground into ones
kneecap)? Ever pitched BP in the cage without a net to an 8 yr. old
Albert Pujols?
I’ve had a baseball-sized chest bruise with colors a Wyatt Waters
painting would envy.
And how about Soccer Mom Shoulder, a common injury caused by 17,000
hikes carrying folding canvas chairs across Mississippi soccer fields
laid out so as to require the most possible distance from the worst
parking space ever.
And then there’s my favorite: Bald Spot Burn—a bright shiny peeling
scalp is not a pretty sight.
As far as dangerous environments are concerned, “Bear” Willis has
nothing on a four-plex baseball park during a big tournament. Want a
rough idea of what London must have felt like in WWII during the German
Blitz? Come get shelled at random by foul balls raining havoc from above
at one of these weekend tourneys. All day long Moms scream “Look out!”
Dads-
“Heads up!” Toddlers, like fools and Saints fans, never do either, saved
only by God’s grace.
These, of course, are just the physical risks—how-z-about the
nutritional damage we inflict on our aging bodies during youth sports?
Wanna put on ten pounds fast? Develop a sunflower seed habit at your
kid’s ballgames. I know of which I speak. This is like putting a couple
of tablespoons of Morton’s salt on your Cheerios each morning.
Pack-A-Day smokers have got nothing on a dad with a serious BBQ seed Jones.
My own behavior as a dad over the years reminds me of the lab test when
the monkeys were repeatedly electroshocked if they reached for certain
goodies—but they kept
on grabbing.
Bring it on. I’ll take the pain. Every time. Every last ouch. Moms and Dads, just rub some dirt on it! It really is worth it. SS