dedalus_1947 | Entries tagged with football

So take the photographs and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good times.
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
For what it’s worth, it was worth all the while.
(Green Day’s Good Riddance - Time of Your Life)

I love my son-in-law. I love my daughter too, but Joe gave me a Christmas gift that I will remember forever. This once-in-a-lifetime experience will go into my life’s storybook, along with other unforgettable moments, such as running a marathon, climbing Mount Whitney, and skydiving. For one afternoon, I was part of an elite group called “The Press”; for three hours I was one of the event photographers, journalists, and commentators who command the sidelines of major athletic competitions and who wear official lanyards labeled Photo or Press. It all came about during an innocent conversation over a Christmas tree.

In December, Joe and Prisa came over to help decorate our Christmas tree. This had become a family tradition once the kids (Toñito and Prisa) left home for separate apartments after college. Toñito would come to put up the lights and Prisa the tree decorations and ornaments (Some times they came together). While Kathy, Prisa, and Joe concentrated on the methodical rhythm of ornament placement, our conversations flowed from topic to topic, covering family, friends, school, and sports. Joe teaches history and coaches softball at Serra High School in Gardena, and Prisa is an English teacher and JV basketball coach at Montgomery High School in Torrance. The previous Friday, Serra had upset the perennial football powerhouse, Oaks Christian High School to win their CIF Division and remain undefeated. It was a tense, nail-biting, overtime struggle that still had the Southern California sports world buzzing. Joe shot game film for the varsity, so he had seen each victory of Serra’s undefeated season. Winning CIF was a huge achievement, but the possibility of a larger goal loomed ahead.
“Hey Dad” Prisa chimed, as she was hanging her favorite “D.A.R.E” ornament on a prominent branch. “If Serra is invited to the State Championships, would you like to go?
“You’re kidding, right?” I countered, thinking she was joking.
“No, really,” Prisa assured me. “The games will be played at the Home Depot Stadium in Carson this year. If Serra’s invited, would you like to go? Joe can get us tickets.”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “I’d love to. It would be great, but do you actually think Serra will go? Aren’t these State Championships strictly invitational games?”
“Yeah they are,” Prisa agreed, “but I don’t see how Serra can miss. Oaks Christian dominated their league and division and went every year. Beating them should get us an automatic invitation to Division III. What do you think, Joe?”
“I think so too,” Joe replied, joining the conversation. “Oaks Christian was ranked number one all season, and we are the first team to beat them in 4 years. We were ranked number 4, so I think we’re in”.
“When will you know for sure?” Prisa asked.
“Tonight,” Joe replied. “In fact, hold on and I’ll check with Mike, the Athletic Director. He’s supposed to text me as soon as he hears, but let me call now”. Joe pulled out his cell phone and stepped into the other room to call.
“Wow, Prisa” I interjected, “it would be so cool to see a State Championship game. I’ve read about them in the paper, but I never imagined I would watch the games in person”.
“You know Dad”, she added pensively, “Joe might even be able to get you a field pass. You could take your camera along and get some great pictures”.
I paused to let her words sink in and said, “Are you kidding me? Can he do that?”
“Sure” she replied confidently. “Joe’s a big part of the athletic program at Serra. I’m sure he could.” At that moment, Joe returned with a wide smile on his face.
“We’re in” Joe announced triumphantly as he returned to the living room. “We play Marin Catholic on Saturday.”
“Great” I shouted. “Congratulations Joe, that’s wonderful. What an experience for the school and the team. Unbelievable!”
“Joe”, Prisa interrupted. “Don’t you think you can get my dad a field pass for the game? He’d love to go and he can get you some great pictures.”
“I don’t see why not” Joe responded quickly. “Mike owes me tons of favors. The tickets won’t be a problem and I’ll talk to him on Monday about the field pass”.
“Great” Prisa concluded. “So I’ll call you later in the week, Dad. Now let’s see about crowning this moment and this beautiful tree with an angel on top”.

The idea of wearing a field pass, walking the sidelines of a State Championship game, and taking photographs of the action was so astounding that I simply compartmentalized it in my mind, and refused to think further about it. My long dead father was a professional photographer. Growing up, I remember him pacing the sidelines, taking photos of Pop Warner football and high school soccer games. He’d wear his navy blue, Venice Athletic Club jacket, with the embroidered “Photo” nametag on his chest. Then, armed with one or two Hasselblad or Rolleflex cameras around his neck or shoulder, my father would stride, yard by yard with the teams on the field, watching the players and the action and shooting pictures. There was something very bold and commanding about his movements and poses. He seemed to mirror the physicality of the athletes on the field; he was part of the action. My fascination with field photographers never ceased. Through college and into adulthood, whenever I went to an athletic competition, I always inspected the event photographers on the courts and sidelines and wondered how it would feel to do what they did. It was a thought I considered impossible – until Wednesday. That night Prisa called me to say that Joe and gotten me a field pass to the State Championship game. I was authorized to photograph the event for Serra High School, with the understanding that the school had first right to use and reproduce any image I recorded. I had become a freelance photographer with a commission to work.

I started to panic when I saw the guarded and secured side entrance with the sign MEDIA on the gate. Wait a minute! I screamed mentally into my head. What was I thinking! I’m no photographer! I was a retired principal and an amateur writer/digital camera owner. I was crazy to think that I could imitate the work of professionals. They’ll expose me as fake and imposter! I tried calming myself as we walked toward the gate. Meeting Prisa at her home and driving together to the Home Depot Center had, at first, managed to distract me from the growing sense of foolishness over what I was attempting. She also re-energized my original excitement and nervous enthusiasm when handing me with the official photo lanyard. Laughing at the tentative manner I held it, she encouraged me to enjoy the experience on the field and “just have fun!” But walking toward this segregated entrance with my camera gear strapped to my side, I was losing heart. The restrictive sign was a clear indication that I would be alone on the field. On that busy sideline, I would be an isolated stranger in a strange world of officials, players, coaches, and professional media personnel of all types.
“Now remember dad,” Prisa said, as if reading my mind and sensing my dismay. “You’ll have Carlos there, so just stick with him and watch what he does. He won’t let you mess up”.
“Yeah, you’re right” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Carlos will be there, won’t he?”
While driving over to the stadium, Joe had called Prisa from the playing field to announce that he had discovered her cousin Carlos among the press corps and photographers. Since graduating from college in 2007 (see Carlito’s Way: Culmination), my nephew Carlos was pursuing a career in the challenging profession of photography and photojournalism. His committed and enthusiastic pursuit of this difficult dream was admirable, and I really respected him. Prisa suspected he might be at this game because he usually covered a lot of the local high school and college sporting news. Joe’s call confirmed his presence. I felt a modicum of comfort knowing I would know someone on the field. If nothing else worked out, at least I’d have a chance to see Carlos working at his trade. Prisa and I separated as I went through the Media gate and she proceeded to the General Admission entrance.

There is a loud, indistinct hum that fills the stands of a sporting venue. It’s the nervous chatter and commotion of thousands of people waiting anxiously for the beginning of a contest or spectacle. But it lessens and slowly fades as one travels down the descending stairs of the stadium. By the time I reached the brightly vested attendant and showed her my pass, the crowd noise was gone. Stepping onto the track, I felt as though I’d walked through a transparent membrane that sealed me off from the distractions and anxieties of the real world. I was in another dimension. The only sounds I heard were the isolated shouts of the team captains directing the warm-up exercises and the calls of the assistant coaches. Everyone else was strangely muted. Thankfully, Joe snapped me out of my paralyzed trance by suddenly materializing by my side.
“Hey Tony,” he called out, giving me a pat on the back and wide bear hug. “You made it, great! How are you doing?” He led me about, introducing me to a variety of coaches and school staff members. Following him on the field gave me a chance to inspect this new world and get my bearings. The teams were separating and moving to their respective sides for drills and the coaches were huddling to confer. We scanned the stands together until we spotted a waving Prisa and waved back.
“Carlos is in that group over there,” Joe said, pointing at a pack of cameramen and photographer standing at the southern end of the field. He excused himself and left me for his long climb up the stands to the press box and I started exploring the field on my own. I would spend approximately three hours in this eerily subdued space at the bottom of the stadium. In those heightened minutes I would experience three sensations during the course of the game: a sense of unity with the press corps, a growing confidence at a new craft, and the relativity of time in an athletic competition.

By virtue of my field pass I was identified as a member of the media. As such I was authorized to record the images I saw, and note my impressions. The next part was more difficult. I needed to join and become a part of the fourth estate, the band of photographers, cameramen, journalists, and reporters gathered at the southern goalpost and along the sidelines. The prospect of this meeting was intimidating. I was sure they would spot me as a fraud and laugh me out of their presence. Thankfully I spotted Carlos right away and walked toward him. When he saw me, he nodded his recognition and waited for me to join him. He was dressed in the same casual, uniform as his colleagues. They were a casual collection of neutral-colored tee shirts, shorts, and jeans, with extra cameras draped around their necks or strapped to their waists. They balanced large cameras with behemoth telephoto lenses on single-legged mounts. The television reporters and commentators stood out with in their expensive suits and fashionable clothes and styles. The closer I got – the more insecure I felt. Carlos dispelled that anxiety with a firm backslap and hug, and a warm smile.
“Hi Tony,” he said, “welcome to the club”.

Carlos welcomed me and began introducing me to his colleagues and friends. There was no reluctance or hesitation in his words or actions. I was his uncle, shooting photos for Serra. By simply listening I quickly realized that these photographers represented a wide variety of clients and motivations. Carlos was shooting photos for the San Francisco Examiner who covered Marin Catholic. Another photographer was independently taking pictures of Robert Woods, a Serra player he had covered from Pop Warner football, and who was going to USC on scholarship. Along with their equipment and dress style, they also shared a remarkable disinterest in all the traditional pre-game festivities that surrounded the game. They were there on business and cared little about the sights and stories that were unfolding on the field. They didn’t bat an eye, or pause their discussions on cameras as eight overly excited cheerleaders exited the tunnel carrying a huge, over-sized banner. Although it felt cool being one of these “photogs” and lounging with them, swapping stories and the latest gossip, my curiosity was driving me crazy. The compulsion to snoop around for myself was forcing me to accept my amateur status and start recording the fascinating scenes that were unfolding in the tunnel, the track, and on the field. I realized also that despite my novice status, inexperience, and inadequate equipment (my Canon T1i with 200m lens was Lilliputian in comparison to the monstrous digital cameras and telephoto lenses used by the professionals), my “official” field lanyard gave me a cloak of invisibility. If I moved slowly and confidently, I could go anywhere on the field and shoot anything I wanted. I excused myself from Carlos and his friends and assumed a strategic position at the mouth of the field tunnel. There I captured the menacing approach of the Serra players from the darkened cavern and their charging onto the gridiron. Moving quickly to another location, I also caught them bursting through the giant banner, which two cheerleaders held aloft while balanced on the shoulders of four confederates. However, the real test of my on-field confidence came at the singing of the national anthem. From the sidelines I’d photographed a trio of Serra students being escorted to the center of the field, where they began singing. When I saw another photographer positioning himself for a better angle, I impulsively broke from the pack of photographers and moved to the center of the field. Cap in hand and walking carefully and deliberately, I glided to the center of the gridiron and – in front of thousands of saluting spectators in the stands - began snapping pictures of the singers.

My freedom on and around the field came to a thunderous end when the game started. From that point, time and speed changed, and my actions became very restricted. The sidelines became my only area of operation because the size and magnification of my camera prevented me from using the end zones to wait for shots to develop in the center of the field. I needed to parallel the movements and actions of each play, and follow the rhythms up of each team. Fortunately, Carlos had pointed out the deadline – the chalk markings over which photographers and journalists were prohibited from crossing. Once the game started and plays began moving from sideline to sideline, I learned why.

While handicapping the teams earlier, Prisa labeled Serra as the odds-on favorite to win because of their superior strength and talent. She also mentioned speed.
“Everything speeds up at this level of play,” she said.
This comment about the velocity of high school players also applied to the flow of time on the field and its unnatural swiftness. From the first kick-off to the last run up the middle of the line, everything happened quickly. The sensation reminded me of the first four downs in my own debut Pop Warner football game as an offensive right guard. My heartbeat quickened, the bodies around me moved faster, and everything happened in instantaneous bursts of chaos. This feeling of acceleration was heightened even more by Serra’s first play from scrimmage. A quick pass to Robert Woods, a wide receiver, resulted in a 67-yard touchdown run. In what seemed short spurts of hurried, violent action, followed by quick huddles, the first half came to an end with the score tied at 14. Prisa and I rendezvoused for a halftime snack and recap of the game. Any thoughts of spending the second half watching the game from the stands with her disappeared as I described my experiences. I wanted to return to that special place on the field. With a second wind, I was better acclimatized to the speed and I felt in synch with the flow of the game. I anticipated the plays better and followed the action through my lens viewer instead of reacting to what I saw with my eyes. I even found myself inching past the deadline Carlos had pointed out - until a sweeping Serra quarterback was shoved out of bounds and almost ended up in my lap. By the time I looked up at the scoreboard again there were only about two minutes left in the game. I photographed the clock and recorded the score and the time.

The game ended with Serra winning 24 to 20. The unreal relativity of time also ended when field personnel and state officials swept over the gridiron to congratulate the teams and begin the concluding ceremonies. I searched out interesting sights and photographed the team with the CIF Division III Championship trophy.

What more can I say about one of the best times of your life? Perhaps by hoping it will occur again, but certainly by expressing my undying gratitude to the people who made it possible. I can never thank Prisa, Joe, or Carlos enough. Prisa for dreaming up the idea and believing I could do it; Joe for accomplishing this wonderfully nepotistic feat; and Carlos for his guidance and camaraderie. It was great watching a real photojournalist at his craft in the rarified environment of a football field. And for one brief afternoon, I shared it with him.

There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed.

Some forever, not for better,

Some have gone and some remain.

All these places have their moments,

With lovers and friends I still can recall.

Some are dead and some are living;

In my life, I’ve loved them all.

(Lennon-McCarthy, In My Life: 1965)

I’ve found that most people my age recall their high school days in idyllic terms. I’ve never understood this. I mistakenly assumed that, in attending the same catholic school for four years, my high school friends and acquaintances shared the same adolescent feelings about these times. Yet, as I shivered at remembered scenes of embarrassments and humiliations, school mates and friends blissfully described these times as the best years of their lives. In the invitation of my silence, they tried to convince me of the superior education they received, the high quality of teaching, and the fulfilling social and sporting activities they participated in. At the conclusion of these conversations, I often doubted that we attended the same high school. These thoughts of high school came to me while I was writing my last essay about driving down Venice Boulevard (Rolling Home) and describing my years playing Pop Warner football. The high school scenes that came to mind did not fit the travelogue essay I was writing, so I saved them for another.

Looking back at the boy I was during high school, I would describe myself as an uncertain and insecure “nerd”, struggling to distinguish himself and achieve some chimerical prize in the social, academic, and athletic arenas in which we competed. I wanted to be recognized and envied: “There goes Tony. I wish I were as handsome, popular, smart, and athletic as he is”. At the same time I was afraid to be singled out, differentiated, or separated from the safety of a group. I wanted to be like other kids; kids who looked the right way, did the right things, and knew what to say in all occasions. It was a confusing time. My day to day existence never ceased being a private struggle of making mistakes, forgiving myself for having made them, and then trying to avoid making them again. This was difficult to do because I kept them hidden and secret. Miraculously, by a confluence of accident, good luck, and hard work, I reached a truce with myself in my senior year. In that fourth year, I achieved a modicum of individual distinction, group acceptance, and personal satisfaction as a student and athlete – but I could never forget my lower-classmen days, especially my freshman year and football.

In the summer of 1961, I decided to skip freshman tryouts and remain for a final year in the Pop Warner football program. I was in the odd situation of being the only high school boy on my team, since everyone else went to public junior high schools. The core of the team had been together for three years. We were veteran and experienced ball players who knew that this could be our championship season. I had no interest in breaking ranks with my comrades to join a new team. I assumed any sportsman would understand this decision; especially since football was just a game. Unfortunately, my high school did not. In my freshman year, I learned two lessons about high school football: Team loyalties are not respected when they conflict with its football program; and football is not a game in high school.

A clue to the importance of football in high school was the tradition among upper classmen in lettermen sweaters of cornering freshman boys and asking if they were going out for football. The question was couched as a compliment, such as “You have great hands; are you going out for the frosh team?” Or, “With your size and strength, you’d make a great lineman; are you going out for football?” The “right” answer was “Sure, I can’t wait!” This response, with an added dose of naive enthusiasm, would get you past this roadblock. Answering “No” was a sure provocation to a hostile interrogation, laced with humiliating homophobic insults and innuendo. “What’s wrong with you, are you a pansy? Do you still play with dolls? You don’t look like a fag to me!” Coaches who taught freshmen classes also posed these question, albeit without the explicit homosexual references. I’d been forewarned of this fall ritual by one former teammate who had moved on to catholic high school. However, it didn’t help, and I mistakenly tried walking the tightrope of honesty and sport machismo. When I was “braced” by lettermen or teachers, I told them I WAS a football player, but I was passing on freshman ball to complete a third year in Pop Warner. Instead of understanding and respect for this loyalty to my team, I received a semester-length dose of negative attention for my choice. It was the worst possible fate for a freshman, in a new school among strangers, to be singled out and made the target of mockery and derision by “jock” teachers and lettermen. I was called a “Pop Warner pansy”, a “homo”, and a “traitor” in hallways and the lunch area. I had to run more laps, and do extra push-ups and sit-ups than my fellow freshmen in P.E. This treatment continued until I showed up for spring football in April.

Spring football is a gathering of novice and veteran football players so they can be inspected and judged for their ability to play junior varsity or varsity football. The coaches hoped to weed out the weak and uncover the strong. At first I thought I had something to prove: I would demonstrate my seasoned skills and fierce attitude; I would show that I was not a “faggot” and I could play this game. Since I had not gone out for the freshman team that fall, I was relegated to the beginners group until I showed my mettle. I took the setback in stride. I devoted the first days to showing the neophytes how to buckle their pads and wear their uniforms, and translating the gridiron curses that were screamed at them by volunteer upperclassmen coaches. The adult coaches talked about team spirit, courage, and commitment; but, after three years, I knew that at its essence, football was about guts, attitude, and rules. There were rules of behavior and etiquette on the field and off the field. Beginners practiced and improved their skills, but real players had to show a willingness to accept and deliver punishment and receive pain without hesitation or sign of distress. I had done this for three years, and I believed I could continue at the high school level.

On one particularly cold day of practice, the linemen paired off for tackling drills. I was facing a mountainous classmate named Alex Schumacher, a freshman beginner who was nicknamed “Big”. He was 6’- 1’’, and weighed about 210 lbs – hefty advantages to my 5-9, 160. We were 5 yards apart when he was given the ball and commanded to run forward. My job was to hit and stop him, lifting and driving him off his feet, back into the ground. The collision was sufficiently loud and thunderous to cause all eyes on the field to turn towards us; but instead of seeing me drive him up and onto his back, the coaches saw us collapse to the side. An unstoppable force had struck the unmovable object, and there was no momentum left. Grasping the instructional opportunity of this moment, an assistant coach ran up to us and yelled in my face. It was a two-man litany I was familiar with:

“Delgado, do you call that sissy effort a tackle?” He screamed.

“No sir” I yelled back, through my mouth piece.

“What do you want to do about it? He barked.

“I want to do it again, coach!” I yelled enthusiastically.

“Good, line up! Do it again! Only this time plant him into the ground.” He commanded.

Schumacher was on his feet, still holding the ball, and moving his helmeted head from side to side as we spoke. He never said a word. He had no lines in this scripted dialogue, so he just stood there, confused, waiting for directions. “What are you waiting for, Shumacher?” the coached yelled, turning toward him and taking the ball away. “You heard me, let’s do it again. Line up – only this time I want you to run over him”.

We separated again. I took my stance, bit down on my mouth piece, and leaned forward, visualized my action. Spring forward, with driving legs, and impaling my right shoulder into his thighs, while wrapping my arms around his knees, pull them back towards me. The keys to a successful tackle off the line are hitting the ball carrier low and maintaining forward momentum by driving your legs like pistons. I’d done this hundreds of times. By putting all the pieces together I would hit him, drive him back, and drop him down. Unfortunately, I knew what all the coaches knew, and the watching veterans suspected, about this pairing – it was a mismatch. Halfbacks and fullbacks did not come in Schumacher’s size, bulk or weight. My only hope was to act confidently and decisively and pray that Schumacher would realize that he needed to let himself be tackled. However, Alex was new to football. He truly believed it was his job to run over me. He knew nothing of lineman etiquette during tackling drills. The purpose of the drill was to practice form and intensity, not to score touchdowns. I was demonstrating the proper bravado and determination; he was supposed to be the tackling dummy.

“Go!” The coach screamed as he jammed the football into Schumacher’s stomach.

I charged off my mark, staying low and staring at the target of his stomach. I hit him with a resounding crunch before he had taken 2 steps, and followed the impact with a long strenuous grunt, “Aarrgghhh!”

Silence ensued, as all eyes watched the mammoth Schumacher, absorb the blow. My shoulder and helmet appeared to be pasted on his waist and thighs, and my legs kept driving, but there was no movement. I finally yanked the arms encircling his legs toward me and twisted him to the side, as though I was wrestling a giant heifer to the ground.

The coach was instantly hovering over us, yelling: “What do you call that, Delgado?”

“A candy-ass tackle, coach,” I replied immediately, looking up at him from the ground. I was hoping that by giving him an honest but humorous response, he would laugh and move on to the next pair. But he wasn’t going to let me off the hook yet.

“Damn right”, he responded. “That was the sorriest, most candy-assed tackle, I’ve ever seen! Where did you learn how to tackle like that? Oh wait, now I remember, Pop Warner football. What do you want to do about this, Delgado? Do you want to quit?”

“No sir!” I yelled back at him at the top of my lungs. “I want to go again, coach!” I lied, hoping that the force of my words would sound convincing. It must have worked, because for the first time I saw what appeared to be the beginnings of a smile on his grizzled face. I hoped he was seeing the absurdity of my situation, the size of my opponent, and realizing that I was only demonstrating false bravado.

“Good, then line up and knock him on his ass!”

That was not the response I wanted to hear. Perhaps my acting was better that I thought. Now I had no recourse but to try one more time. Since Alex was not cooperating with me, I needed a new plan. I jogged back to the line of tacklers and took my three point stance. If I couldn’t drive him back, then I had to drop him. The only way to do that was to knock his feet out from under him. This was the last-ditch, failsafe maneuver performed by undersized safeties when facing hard-charging fullbacks who had broken through the defensive lines of linemen and linebackers. It was a risky maneuver, because by launching oneself at a ball carrier’s feet, and turning themselves into a low-flying missile, with their helmet as the warhead, the tackler lost sight of his target. A quick back could simply leap over the blind, low flying obstacle and make the tackler look foolish. No self-respecting lineman would try such a ploy, leaving it for the likes of safeties, punters, and kickers. I had seen it done, but I never practiced the maneuver. I kept telling myself that Schumacher did not know enough to leap over me.

“Go” shouted the coach, pushing the ball into Schumacher’s stomach for the third time.

I flew off my mark, tunneling all my attention at the space between his ankles and knees. On my third step I launched myself, lowering my eyes to the ground, and visualizing the contact of my helmet and shoulder pads against bone and sinew. I felt a jarring collision that shivered through my neck, shoulders, back, waist, and thighs. I felt a wide blow to the stomach, followed by the collapsing avalanche of a mountain on my back. Everything went black until someone rolled me over.

“He’s not breathing, he’s not breathing!” Schumacher was yelling frantically in my face, and looking around in panic.

I was trying to inhale, but my lungs and mouth found no traction. I was grasping for air in an airless vacuum, and everyone moved and sounded as though they were under water. The wind had been knocked out of me. I’d seen it happen a few times in practices, and I’d experienced it once – I think. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t care, because I couldn’t breathe. I tried saying “Pull up my belt; pull me up by my belt!” but no sounds emanated except more gasping. I’d seen coaches and other players treat this condition by lifting the belt of the winded player and raising his stomach. This action allowed air back into the diaphragm and lungs. However, no one was moving toward me and I was beginning to panic. Finally the head of the coach appeared in front of me, and I felt my midsection being raised up. “Whoosh”, the air seemed to rush back into me, and I started breathing again.

“Are you okay, Delgado?” The coach asked, staring into my eyes.

“Yes, sir”, I replied, marveling at how good air tasted after being blown out of your body. I sat up and felt my body expanding and contracting with air.

“Take five and get some water”, he said, patting me on my helmet.

“Do you want me to try it again, coach?” I asked, praying that he would finally call a halt to this ludicrous game we were playing.

“No”, he said, grimly, patting my helmet again. “I think you’ve done enough for now. Go get some water”.

I got up slowly and removed my helmet as I went jogging off to the water fountain. My stomach was sore, so I just rinsed my mouth and spit out the water. I was more interested in deep gulps of air than water. Two minutes later Schumacher came lumbering up to the fountain.

“I’m sorry, Tony”, he said through the face guard of his helmet.

“Shut up, you asshole” I muttered, softly, making sure no coaches heard. “Thanks for trying to kill me”, I exaggerated for good measure.

“Jeez” he whined. “I was only following directions. I didn’t mean to hurt you”.

“It’s a tackling DRILL you idiot!” I said, accentuating every word. “You’re not supposed to score touchdowns. You’re supposed to hold the ball and be tackled”.

“I’m sorry”, he repeated soulfully.

“Come on”, I said, putting my helmet back on. “Let’s get back to practice”. As we jogged along, I shook my head from side to side, in dreaded anticipation. Was I the only person who saw the absurdity of the drill and its mismatch? The tackling episode had been filled with potential for levity and humor, but the coach treated it as a tragedy of some sort. I was in the middle of a slapstick comedy sketch, but nobody was laughing. I couldn’t because my stomach was too sore, and no one else seemed to get it.

When Schumacher and I returned to our section of the practice field, the coach was directing the linemen to form a wide circle around him.

“Okay, okay, okay” he said, clapping his hands together in rhythm with his exclamations. “The drill is called ‘Bull in the Ring’. You each have a number. We start with one man in the middle, whose job it is to stay there as long as possible. The object is to knock the man out of the ring. I call a number, and the man with that number charges and drives the bull out of the ring. Get it? Who’ll go first?”

Even as I stepped forward with raised arm, shouting “Here coach!” the self-accusations reverberated in my mind: “What are you doing? Are you crazy? What are you trying to prove?” It was too late.

“Delgado, great; I knew I could count on you. Get in the middle of the ring, and be alert and ready”.

I ran to the center of the circle and took a wide, crouching stance, with arms up and out, and legs driving into the ground. It was a stupid drill whose only purpose was to demonstrate toughness and determination. Some coaches called it an open-field blocking drill, claiming it increased alertness and reaction time. I’d come to the conclusion that it was simply another game, a test of strength, fatigue, and spirit. I figured I could use my experience and balance, as well as my strength, to stay in the ring for a decent length of time.

“Five” shouted the coach, and Cavanaugh, a tall end came charging at me. He ran upright, so I slipped under his arms and slammed my shoulder into his chest and stomach, keeping my legs driving. “Eleven”, and the next player sprang at me. On and on the random countdown continued, and with each new opponent I managed to stay balanced and low, matching blow for blow, and push for push. I think I survived seven or eight attackers when my shoulders, arms, and legs began to ache and my reactions became labored. I wasn’t popping my pads into the on-rushing chests with enthusiasm, and my movements slowed. I was weakening, and it would only be a matter of time before I was pushed out; but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. When Number 3 came careening at me like a runaway locomotive, I stepped aside and shoved him in the same direction he was moving. His momentum sent him crashing to the ground, and triggered a verbal firestorm from the coach.

“What the hell are you doing, Delgado!” he screamed, running up to my position in the middle of the ring.

“I’m staying in the ring, coach” I replied, with more conviction than I felt.

“That’s not staying in the ring, Delgado – that’s chicken shit. You’re supposed to pound him out of the ring or be pounded out. You can’t be dancing around my ring. You’re not a ballerina, and I don’t want any candy-assed chickens in my ring!”

Perhaps it was the implausibility of a candy-assed hen that sent me over the edge. I again imagined I was back in that absurdist sketch on the tackling field, only this time I wasn’t accepting his humorless line of thinking.

“I thought I was on defense, sir”, I stated defiantly. “So I used my hands”.

“You what?” he exploded, his face turning into a rich tomato color. “You thought you were on defense? Are you being a smart-ass? Who told you to think? I don’t want you thinking on my field; I want you following orders and showing me some guts”.

“Sorry, coach” I dead-panned. “I thought I was on defense”. I wasn’t admitting my error, and I wasn’t giving him any new openings. I certainly wasn’t volunteering to repeat the drill. I’d already managed to knock the wind out of myself once and I had no intention of doing it again; but I never expected his response.

“You quit, and I can’t stand quitters” he shouted hysterically, grabbing hold of my face mask. “Get out of my sight, Delgado. You make me sick. Take five laps, and then pack up your Pop Warner, smart-ass attitude and hit the showers. You’re done for the day. Get out of here. I don’t want to see you”.

During those laps around the field, I subjected that coach to every hellish torture and degradation a 14 year old could imagine. I called him every curse word I knew, and muttered every obscenity I could think of with each crunching step. By the time I reached the locker room I was finally under control, and during the shower I considered quitting. With water dripping over my head and shoulders I came to the sad realization that this was not the way I learned to play the game. There was no laughter or levity during these practices; there were no encouragements or gentle prodding. I’d entered the new dimension of high school football, and I’d entered it late, with a reputation for having chosen Pop Warner football over freshman ball. These coaches were attempting to tear down the players and then build them up; and I was being too analytical, too critical, and too judgmental. I didn't belong here. I heard the clattering of cleats against cement before the rest of the players joined me in the locker room. No one directed a word to me. Although I sat in classes with many of these players, we were still virtual strangers. I had crossed a line of some kind on the practice field, and they were afraid that contact with me might contaminate them. I was alone and afraid to tell anyone what had happened.

Loneliness is a strange sensation when one is surrounded by two parents, two brothers, and two sisters, and crowded into a modified two-bedroom, one-bathroom home; but during my adolescence I felt it the most. No one seemed to know what I was experiencing in a co-institutional (girls attended the same high school, but they were educated in separate classes, by lay women or sisters) catholic high school as a freshmen. I was given no forewarning of, or frame of reference for the conflicts I was encountering. No one gave me the advice and warnings I offered my younger siblings when they entered grade school, high school, or college. That night I managed to bury and repress all thoughts of practice as I watched television. I actually welcomed the distracting aching muscles and fatigue I felt. I slept an exhausted and dreamless sleep, and awoke determined to quit. The rest of my day in classes was spent contriving the rationale I would offer to my coaches and parents for this decision. At 3:25 that afternoon, carrying my helmet, pads, and uniform over my shoulder, I walked silently to the block house that acted as our locker room. I told the head coach that I had spoken with my parents and they wanted me to devote more attention to my class work and grades. I don’t know if I was convincing, or if he had already decided that I wasn’t worth the effort, but he did not try to change my mind. He accepted my gear and wished me luck. That night I lied to my father and said that the demands of spring football were aversely affecting my class work, homework and grades. I told him that I needed to quit and concentrate on my course work. It was an argument that he could not, and did not, argue with. I sealed my fate that freshman year, and my football career came to an end.

How does it feel?

To be on your own,

With no direction home,

Like a complete unknown.

Like a rolling stone?

(Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan: 1965)

When I saw the familiar exit sign on Interstate 405, I knew a decision had to be made. “Which way do I turn at the end of the off ramp?” I thought. I was driving to the December meeting of the Middle School Principal’s Organization (MSPO) of the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD). The meeting was to be held at Mark Twain Middle School. This was the public school which was attended by most of the kids I played baseball and football with as a child. I’ve traveled this road hundreds of times in my life: practicing freeway driving with my dad in 1964; driving home from classes at UCLA in 1967; and driving home from work on the swing shift at ADT Alarm Company, in 1971. After all those years, one would think that this was an easy question to answer, no? No; in fact it is a conundrum of Dylanesque proportions (Bob, not Thomas). This crossroad of Sawtelle Boulevard and the 405 exit always challenged me to find the best direction home. Turning left, puts me on Washington Place, which (when followed westward) takes me directly to my mother’s home. Turning right places me on a street, which (while a little out of the way) is a more historic route. While I usually took the quicker and more familiar course home, on this occasion I turned right. I decided to treat myself to a nostalgic journey down the boulevard named after the beach community where I lived from childhood through adulthood - Venice, California.

Today, Venice Boulevard is an expansive, four-lane, double highway that runs from Figueroa Street in Los Angeles to Pacific Avenue in Venice. I first traveled this road in 1959 when my father drove the entire family to see his new work place, and the house we hoped to buy in Culver City. At that time, the boulevard was a narrow, two-lane street, separated by a wide expanse of abandoned railroad track running in between. My father reanimated those tracks with stories about how he and his two younger brothers rode the trolleys of the Pacific Electric Railway to the beach. He called it the Red Car, and it was part of the legendary electric train system that operated in Southern California during the first half of the 20^th Century. The line started in South Los Angeles and ended in the city of Venice (which was later incorporated into Los Angeles), with its famous promenade, beach, pier, and huge, indoor, saltwater swimming pool. In between these terminal points, the route traveled through the communities of Culver City, Palms, and Mar Vista. Culver City was the most prominent stop.

Home of three major studios, Metro Goldwyn Mayer (MGM), Hal Roach, and Radio-Keith-Orpheum (RKO); Culver City was the mecca of the Hollywood film, movie, and television industry from the early 1900’s to the 70’s. While MGM, with its impressive, overhead billboard of a roaring lion, was certainly the largest studio, RKO was the most storied. The studio produced such movie classics as King Kong and Citizen Kane, and it had a series of notorious and memorable owners. Joseph Kennedy, Howard Hughes, and David O. Selznick, owned and operated this studio. In 1957, RKO was purchased by Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez (stars of I Love Lucy), and renamed Desilu Studios. It was finally sold to Paramount Television Studios in 1967. Until our move to the Westside, I assumed that movies and television shows were produced only in Hollywood. I couldn’t believe that I would soon be living so close to this magical industry and the stars that worked there. As time went on, despite my pretended indifference to the celebrity star system, I never lost the habit of rubber-necking whenever I drove by the studios in Culver City. I was convinced that all the stars who worked there, also walked to work, strolled along the streets, and frequented the shops, restaurants, and churches of that city. Unfortunately, despite all my years of looking, I think I only saw the back of David McCallum’s head (He was the co-star of the popular 60’s television series, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.).

My knowledge of this street really started at my father’s workplace. He was a photographer at Mauri-Bardovi Photography, a commercial studio on Venice Blvd, just south of Cattaraugus Ave (I remember the street because I mispronounced it “cataracts”, ignoring the sound of the fourth vowel in favor of an ocular disease that rolled off my tongue). He worked there for nine years, eventually becoming the manager after the death of the owner and founder. His first duties were general photography and detailing (or “opaquing”) negatives. This intricate, doctoring of negatives, allowed only the non-opaque parts of a negative to develop and print. I still remember walking through that building on my first visit. The brand new, state-of-the-art studio seemed to be an unwinding honeycomb of workstations, darkrooms, printing labs, drying rooms, and large, open spaces. These open areas were cluttered with lights, stands, partitions, cables, tripods, and cameras. To an eleven year old novice, the studio was a disorienting maze of darkness and light as I walked from room to room, and lab to lab. It was scary and wondrous at the same time.

When I accompanied him as a helper, my father would disappear into a dark room with rolls of encased camera film and, guided by eerie red illumination, reappear in minutes with dripping spirals of unwound negatives. The unspooled rolls were then hung up like long, narrow socks on clothes lines in a walk-in cabinet. Once dry, the next step of the process was the most elaborate and creative. My father took the dry negatives into a wet lab to “print” and develop the photos. In those black and white days, images were projected and “imprinted” through light onto chemically treated photographic paper. By hand, these prints were then passed along and submerged in a series of flat chemical tubs until the pictorial images materialized and were locked in place. Until my initiation into this process, I thought photography consisted of posing or staging the subjects you wished to record, and snapping the shutter. I believed that the creative use of light and shadow was at the beginning of the photographic sequence, never imagining that the true masters of this artistic medium also manipulated them at the end. My father’s real skill as a photographer was demonstrated after the rolls of negative film were dry. He would use them to produce quick “contact proofs”. He studied these temporary prints to find the best negatives and determine the timing and lighting needed to produce the right picture. It was my job (as his eldest born helper) to dry the prints. So I would carefully lay the chemically treated photos onto a wide canvas conveyor belt that moved around a huge warming drum. They emerged, crisp and glossy at the other end of the conveyor, ready to be stacked and boxed. When I wasn’t bored or sleepy, I marveled at the simplicity of a black and white palette and the fine photos my father could produce by his attention to detail.

Just down the street from my father’s studio, heading west on Venice, near National Blvd, was another famous locale. My siblings and I recognized it immediately when we first drove past. We had already been branded by its distinctive Olympic trademark label and trucks. The Helms Bakery, and its fleet of open-cabbed bakery trucks, with their distinctive nautical whistles, was the pastry pied-piper of our time. To children in the late 50’s and early 60’s, the cookies, cakes, and doughnuts of the Helmsman made him the equal to the Good Humor Ice Cream Man. Mothers also appreciated this service because the Helmsman provided convenient staples that every kitchen needed. It was a rare confluence of interest which did not survive the increasing number of family automobiles and the swelling expansion of large, neighborhood supermarkets. Helms was already reducing its fleet and collapsing routes when we moved into Venice. Soon after, the trucks stopped rolling and the bakery closed. For years the last remaining symbols of the company were the bronze statue of The Helmsman at the Wheel, which was across the street from the Helms Olympic Foundation, and the original trademark Helms Olympic chevron sign atop the old bakery on Venice Blvd. The sign and foundation are still there, but the sculpture was moved to Chace Park in the Marina del Rey. The original bakery was converted into a huge furniture warehouse and showroom, and another section was turned into a jazz club called The Jazz Bakery which still operates.

Down from Helms Bakery is the intersection of Venice and Sepulveda Blvd. Sepulveda is the longest street in the city and county of Los Angeles. It runs an impressive 42.8 miles from Rinaldi Ave in the northern end of the San Fernando Valley to the city limits of Hermosa Beach. For the purposes of this story, it marked the boundary between Culver City and Palms, and led to the house we never bought. I don’t remember much of the house, other than it being yellow and immediately opposite the freeway. I do recall that it was located near Tito’s Tacos, a small, walk-up Mexican restaurant, on the corner of Washington Place and Sepulveda. Whenever I passed this taco stand, I saw long, serpentine lines of men and women waiting to purchase their simple fare of tacos, tostadas, burritos, tortilla chips and salsa. The only comparable sight was Tommy’s Original World Famous Hamburger stand, on Beverly Blvd in Los Angeles. The long lines at Tito’s Tacos continue to this day, and despite this visual testimony to its popularity, I never ate there. I probably would have, if we had moved nearby. However, when the bank determined that our house’s location was too close to an expanding freeway, the sale fell through. Soon after, my parents found a new house in Venice, and we bought it.

I always considered the 405 Interstate the border line of “The Westside”. Every thing west of the San Diego Freeway was the official “Westside”, and all the communities to the East were not (despite their proximity to the freeway). I’m sure citizen of Culver City, Palms, Cheviot Hills, Westwood, Fox Hills, and Inglewood would challenge this assertion, but they’d be wrong. The east-west divide occurs at the 405. Everything changes when you cross the freeway, traveling toward the beach – the weather, the residences, the people, and the traffic. Just as you can feel and see the thermometer change when you drive through the Sepulveda Pass from the San Fernando Valley into West Los Angeles at Mulholland Drive; you experience the same sensation when crossing the 405. The cold, wet, marine layer overcast, which is a common feature of beach life, rarely extends past the San Diego Freeway, and people dress, act, and look different on the eastside. I’ve also noticed that first-time visitors to these beaches exclaimed that they could smell the ocean after they crossed the 405.

As I traveled westward on Venice Boulevard, every street I passed, from Sawtelle Blvd to Walgrove Ave, was a virtual portal to memories of the past. Each road led to stories, people, and experiences that affected me and shaped my life. McLaughlin Ave was the route I took to UCLA when I commuted by motor scooter as an undergrad, and on bicycle as a graduate student. I would drive the family car when it was available, but with 3 and then 4 siblings attending the same college at different hours of the day, and with different courses, it was never convenient. We depended on personal means of transportation. The Santa Monica “Big Blue Bus” was the best option, but it took a long and circuitous course to the university. I preferred a solitary method because I could set my own schedules and explore new neighborhoods and routes whenever the notion struck me. When I took my scooter or bike, I always chose the flattest route to Westwood. I avoided the “Sawtelle Hill” by riding around it on Palms Blvd, then connecting with Sawtelle, and taking that street all the way to Ohio Ave in Brentwood. Ohio Ave was the southern border of the Federal property that contained the Veterans Administration complex, the Medical Center, the Federal Building, and the National Cemetery. Ohio took me to Veterans Ave in Westwood; and that street led me to Westwood Village and UCLA. Most days, I enjoyed the long commute in the fresh clean air, because it cleared my mind and gave me time to think about things. I also became familiar with the local sights, neighborhoods, and communities of the Westside: the Nisei (second generation Japanese-American) community along Sawtelle in Palms, the used book stores on Santa Monica Blvd, and the variety of theatres, shops, and restaurants in the Village. Centinela Avenue in Mar Vista was another such portal.

Whenever I cross Centinela on Venice Blvd, I always look toward the southeast corner of the intersection to see the remnants of Bruno’s Ristorante, the Italian restaurant that stood there from 1969 to 2000. The original building still stands, along with its HUGE billboard sign; but it now houses a Christian enterprise called The Vineyard Christian Fellowship. Bruno’s was the first “real” restaurant we dined at as a family of eight (6 children and 2 adults). Prior to that occasion, we only visited “family diners” such as Norm’s or Denney’s. These were convenient places, but I couldn’t shake the idea that they weren’t very classy, and one shouldn’t take a serious girl friend to dinner there. Bruno’s, on the other hand, presented a readable and moderately priced menu, with the upscale décor of a welcoming Venetian palazzo. I always felt comfortable and secure there, and took girls I liked and wanted to impress on dates. It was one of the first restaurants I took my wife Kathy when we began dating. Centinela also served as our backdoor route to Santa Monica. If we wanted to avoid the traffic and congestion of Lincoln Blvd when driving to that city, Centinela was the better path to take. The most graphic memory I have of that route is when I drove my father to the Santa Monica Airport to recover the studio car. This was the day his boss died in a helicopter accident. He had been scouting aerial sites for a photo shoot when the engine failed. Miraculously, the pilot avoided hitting any pedestrians, cars, or spectators, when the helicopter lost power and crashed. The pilot and my Dad’s friend and boss died on a street in Palms. Once my father answered my questions about the crash, he remained silent for the remainder of the trip to the airport.

Mar Vista was an apartment haven for young people and college students in the 1960’s and 70’s. It’s affordable, single and double room residences attracted large numbers of UCLA, Mount Saint Mary’s, and Santa Monica College students, who couldn’t afford the higher rents of Santa Monica, Brentwood, and Westwood. Despite my geographical proximity to Mar Vista, I actually spent more time with friends in the South Bay area, and the cities of Manhattan, Hermosa, and Redondo Beach. The South Bay tended to attract students from Loyola, Marymount University, and El Camino College. My high school friends (see Tres Amigos) lived in Hermosa Beach. A friend’s apartment offered the perfect counter-balance to college, home, and life (especially if one still lived at home with his family, like I did). Once or twice a week, I would drop by Jim, Greg, and Wayne’s, or John’s apartment to talk, play cards, listen to music, and share the problems of school and home. The addition of beer, wine, and food would escalate these innocuous visits to a higher level. Given the right circumstances and motivations, these spontaneous visits could generate viral invitations to more friends and soon an all-night party ensued. Those youthful days seemed endless. As time passed, and prices rose, however, many of these apartments on the Westside and South Bay were eventually converted into condominiums and sold off to older, permanent residents. If I took Wade Street at Venice and traveled south for a mile or so, I would arrive at Mitchell Ave. My brother Eddie had his first apartment on that street, and when he bought a nearby condo, my youngest brother Alex joined him as a roommate for awhile. My sister Gracie even rented an apartment nearby, before she moved to San Francisco. A little further south from Wade on Venice Blvd, I arrived at the jewel of the boulevard, Venice High School.

The permanent image I have of Venice High School is of manor-like grounds, with lush, green grass, beautiful gardens, and towering, gleaming white, Art Deco buildings. The focal point of this picture was a dramatically posed sculpture of a woman, pointing skyward. The scantily clad statue rose above two crouching figures and was positioned in the middle of a rose garden, between a double walkway, that traveled from the sidewalk to the Main Building. It was a captivating sight, which raised my opinion of the design and planning that went into the school construction of that age. I later learned that the sculpture was of Myrna Loy, a famous motion picture star of the 30’s and 40’s, who attended Venice High in the 1920’s. The school was first established in 1911. In those days it was called Venice Union Polytechnic High School. The original buildings were severely damaged in the Long Beach earthquake of 1933. The Art Deco style was used in the reconstructed school that we see today.

I never attended Venice High School, but I became intimately familiar with its grounds, athletic fields, and football stadium. For three seasons, from 1960 to 1962, I played Pop Warner Football at Venice High School. We practiced three to five days a week on the small eastside playing field, and we played on Saturdays in the football stadium. It was the site of my training and initiation into a ritual sport that I grew to love, play, and leave behind. When I went out for football, I knew absolutely nothing about it. I was aware that my father played football in junior college, because I’d found an old photograph of him in pads and uniform. We also watched some of the early NFL games on television; but that was all. I’d learned the rudiments of baseball by playing on the streets and playgrounds of Los Angeles. By the time I joined a Little League baseball team in Venice, I was 12 years old, with unrefined skills, and many bad fielding habits. However, when I signed up for Pop Warner football, I committed to learning a sport from the ground up, under the tutelage of knowledgeable and dedicated teachers and coaches. The Venice Athletic Association, the sponsoring organization, was a mature version of Little League. Players were made responsible for equipment, playbooks, and practices, and they addressed all adults as “Sir” and coaches as “Mr.” or “Coach” (we had been on a first name basis in Little League). My football coaches were the first teachers to illustrate the principle that football skills such as blocking, tackling, catching, passing, and scrimmaging had to be learned correctly. Skills could only be mastered by meticulous discipline, attention to detail, and practice; practice, practice, practice. Games were the easy part; they were the reward after 5 grueling days of exercise, drills, and scrimmages. I discovered that playing the game well was not about individual talent; it was about practice and working as a team. The benefit of playing on the same team, with the same players, and consistent coaching for 3 years was physical, intellectual, and technical improvement that I could witness and experience. The first time I was sent into a game for a series of plays was a blur of lights, bodies, huddles, and collisions. Players spoke in garbled words that I could not comprehend, and everything moved too fast, except me. I was stuck in quicksand with a filmy bag over my head. After my first series of downs I returned to the safety and calmness of the bench, and stayed there when the offensive unit returned to the field. I did not realize that I was supposed to stay in the game until THE COACH took me out. Three years later, as co-captain of the defensive unit, each down was a slow, elongated interval between actions which allowed me time to analyze and reflect. Each play flowed as if it was in slow motion, giving me time to think, react, and recover.

The corner of Venice Blvd and Walgrove Avenue was my final milestone. It marked the northwest boundary of Venice High School, and signaled a change of direction from my westerly migration. I turned right and headed north on Walgrove. This would be my first visit to Mark Twain Junior High in over 45 years. I’d passed it countless times in my youth. This was a familiar path because I had taken it many times when a football practice or scrimmage was held at Penmar Playground, in North Venice. On those occasions, the players who weren’t driven by their parents, would meet at the high school and then ride their bikes up Walgrove Ave to Lake St. Along the way, we’d pass Mark Twain, with its distinctive mural entrance. It was the school all my Pop Warner teammates attended before they matriculated to their respective high schools as 10^th graders. Playing football for three years with public school students had been an educational experience for me. These boys took courses and talked about subjects that didn’t exist in my school. They dressed for P.E., showered in locker rooms, and took shop classes. They also used more colorful and expressive words when cursing and swearing. I don’t recall any racial or pejorative name calling and put-downs, but I do remember anger, with some pushing and shoving. We were experiencing many new feelings and emotions in those days. Playing on the same team for three years had taught us to deal with anger, successes, and failure. The contact nature of football, with its strict rules, transcending folklore, and rigid penalties, allowed a fair and physical means of resolving disputes, and expressing joy and despair. We would practice during the week, play a game on Saturday, and then, win or lose, get on with the rest of our lives at school, home, or play. Football was a sport that was sensible, balanced, and enjoyable, and the coaches and boosters of the Pop Warner program emphasized and practiced those values.

I drove past the front of Mark Twain Middle School on Walgrove and turned right on Victoria Ave. The street took me to the P.E. field on the north side of campus, and the parking that had been reserved for member of the visiting organization. I was curious to see what the school actually looked like from the inside. As I walked through the hallways and along the outdoor arcades, I though of my old teammates and the game we played. I was struck by a thought about endings. My playing days ended with Pop Warner football on the fields of Venice High, while most of my teammates continued playing at their respective schools. Our lives divided, like intersecting highways, and I never saw them again.