When I was nine, I played a year of football in Danville, Illinois. Helmets, pads, the whole thing. We had a pretty good team…only lost one game.
In that game (the only one I remember) the opening kickoff came to me…I juked left, then right, then backwards as I was driven into the ground. I still remember how much it hurt. I still remember how much I didn’t like it.
This is the moment I think back on as to why I didn't play a second season.
Later in the game, we scored a touchdown and went for two (we never kicked) but we had a false start…or rather, I had a false start. The coach decided we would try a pass play. And he put me in as quarterback.
I remember calling signals, and dropping back to pass…I saw three guys coming and threw it as hard as I could toward the designated receiver before I was smashed into the ground. It was incomplete. I never found out where the pass went…was it short? Long? Where?
I don’t remember much else. We lost 33-31.
I don’t think I handled the ball again for the rest of the year. For my wide receiver career, I never caught a pass. I had one thrown to me, but I dropped it.
Hit me right in the chest. I still think about that.
