Goodfellows52: A risky game that is not right for every kid

Goodfellows52: A risky game that is not right for every kid: "You have to play this game like somebody just hit your mother with a two-by-four." Dan Birdwell "I  like to believe th...

A risky game that is not right for every kid

"You have to play this game like somebody just hit your mother with a two-by-four."

Dan Birdwell

"I like to believe that my best hits border on felonious assault."

                                                                                                                                                Jack Tatum

We watched a bunch of big men wearing 20 pounds of equipment pummel each other on a Sunday afternoon.

I know a stadium is not the Colisee in Italy, where gladiators fought to the death to entertain for their blood-thirsty Roman masters, but in football there are career-ending injuries and a lifetime of pain that comes with being slapped around like a heavy bag in a sweaty gym.

Large men play this game for big money and all the trappings that come with wearing a uniform in the National Football League. There are lucrative contracts and stardom for NFL players. The perks are numerous and that is why daring young men don shoulder pads to joust with opponents on artificial turf. They know there is danger, but these guys still suit up for Sunday.

In the course of four quarters, men with no necks slam into each other at a velocity that frequently does great harm to the body. This is organized violence on huge scale and it is also why I am grateful my son had no interest in putting on a football helmet.

He told me he was not interested in knocking around other human beings on Saturday afternoons and Friday nights.

My response: “Good! You will live longer. That makes you smarter than me.”

I  told him that if you don’t enjoy hitting people or getting hit, don’t play a game that requires brawn and the desire turn yourself into a human battering ram. So he became a swimmer, a thrower in track and a ski patroller during high school, and I am still so damn proud of him. He is his own entity and he exercised sound judgement.

I, on the other hand, loved the game and I found it fun to make a good, clean hit and knock the other guy to the ground with a huge smile on my face.

There is cautionary tale here for parents who might feel disappointed if their child is interested in the soccer or the swim team.

Any parent who makes the misguided attempt to live through their children is an idiot. It really is that simple. Push a kid into a certain sport and I guarantee you that your child will rebel in kind and his or her frustrations will manifest itself in many ugly ways.

Not every kid is cut out to throw around a pigskin or get down in the trenches with linemen who are hell bent on opening up holes with brute force.

Football, whether it is Pop Warner or high school, is a punishing sport, where the timid have no place on the gridiron. Sure, there a lot of nice guys who play football. As a sportswriter, I have met boxers and Mixed Martial Arts fighters who are kind and affable, but athletes of this caliber also understand there is an aggressive instinct —  or grit — that is required to participate in these rough-and-tumble sports.

If dad thinks his son is wimp because he shunned football to play golf or baseball, then dad needs to see a shrink.

There are a risky moments in all sports, but the percentage is higher in all contact sports. Still, with the raging debate over concussions in football, parents should think twice about their children’s participation in the sport.

As a lineman, I suffered two concussions, a bad sprain and a broken thumb playing football. The second head injury came when I played for the Norwich University football team. A swollen brain convinced me that it was not worth the punishment anymore, so I gave it up in college.

Do I have any regrets?

Absolutely none! 

It was an easy choice for me to walk away when it came to preserving my health, knowing all along I would never be an NFL lineman. I was quick and tough, but I didn’t have the speed or the bulk.

As for my son, I never second-guessed him about his decision. He is comfortable in his own skin and we avoided those trips to the emergency room that I often made as member of a football team.

Goodfellows52: GQ writer takes Maine to task for whatever reason

Goodfellows52: GQ writer takes Maine to task for whatever reason: “Bad writing is more than a matter of shit syntax and faulty observation; bad writing usually arises from a stubborn refusal to tell storie...

GQ writer takes Maine to task for whatever reason

“Bad writing is more than a matter of shit syntax and faulty observation; bad writing usually arises from a stubborn refusal to tell stories about what people actually do― to face the fact, let us say, that murderers sometimes help old ladies cross the street.” 
                                                                                              ― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Editors note: Here the link to (http://www.gq.com/story/do-we-need-maine-paul-lepage) the hit piece on Maine. If readers suffer any signs of disgust, stop reading it immediately and  pick up a good book.

A writer for GQ Magazine recently wrote a slice-and-dice column that took Maine and its residents to task for whatever reason.

He name is not worth mentioning or his writing — for that matter.

The piece is inane and belongs in a dumpster.

His acerbic thoughts serve no purpose other than to provoke and lambaste people in the Pine Tree State. He judged all Mainers by a governor who has had a handful pathetic moments during his time in office.

The writer appears to be as angry and ineloquent as our governor.

You sound like numerous uninformed posters who hide behind a thin veil of anonymity and spread their poisonous thoughts across the Internet. You took the long way around the barn to make no point at all.

You flayed away at a state rich in history and filled with genuine people who enjoy its vast natural resources and the cold, which keeps away blowhards like you.

There are many reasons why I am not a subscriber to GQ, but this writer certainly tops my list when it comes to explaining why I’ve never wasted $5 to purchase an elitist ad rag that caters to CEOs and Wall-Street types wearing $5,000 clothes. As far as journalism goes, I prefer the New York Times or the Boston Globe for eye-opening points of view.

I am surprised this drivel got past an adept editor and ended up in print. The writing is similar to an essay written by a disgruntled third grader condemning his teacher for assigning homework over school vacation.

There is no question the state is sparsely populated when you venture beyond Bangor. But there is Mt. Katahdin and the Allagash Wilderness Waterway, where people come from all over the world to enjoy and explore the state’s wilderness. 

Maine gave this country Medal-of Honor winner Joshua Chamberlain, who led a group of beat-up, shot-up Union soldiers who foiled the Confederates at Gettysburg, Penn. By the way, it takes a great deal of money to live in Portland, which is a great city and in some ways Boston’s little brother.

The Pine Tree State is bigger than all of us and our governor, but it has no room for a writer who pretends to be an erudite scholar. Obviously, a four-year degree didn’t do much for you as a writer.

I am outsider who didn't ride into the state on a high horse when I established roots here. I took a job, and along the way, I discovered there are good people here, and that could be said of any state in the union. Yes, I have been chided for being an out-of-stater and a Masshole, but my boyish good looks and self-deprecating humor have won over the staunchest Mainers.

I understand clever opinion pieces are written to stir the pot and make people think, but this piece of junk should have been spiked by the publisher.

Whatever reasons you have against Maine, please keep your jumbled thoughts and inadequate writing to yourself.

If you object to my opinion, do not contact me. Reading your nonsense was enough for three lifetimes, and I am sure a conversation with you would be equally fruitless.

Goodfellows52: Going on holiday and a lost gift from the past is ...

Goodfellows52: Going on holiday and a lost gift from the past is ...: “Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't...

Going on holiday and a lost gift from the past is discovered

“Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!” 

― Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!

REVERE, Mass. — Blame it on the warm weather for my Christmas cheer and indomitable holiday spirit.

A week and half ago, we traveled Revere to celebrate the Yuletide with family and friends. It was the first Christmas I didn’t have to cook. I had become a man of leisure — at least for two days —and could enjoy the holiday without slaving over a hot stove.

You see, I didn't just survive the holidays. I enjoyed them for the first in a long time. Now I embrace the mayhem and the insanity that goes along with Christmas and Thanksgiving. I guess I always enjoyed the madness.

We left cloudy and cool Maine, and by the time we approached the Massachusetts coast on Christmas Eve, the warm embrace of a shining sun and a warm sea breeze greeted us.

The temperature rose to 70 degrees in the dead of a New England December. There have been warm Christmases in the past, but this was beach weather. It was astounding — and unheard of at this time of year. The warm sun put everybody in a good mood and the thought of

dreaming of a white Christmas would end up being an ordinary nightmare.

Before we checked into our room at the Red Roof Inn in Saugus, Mass., we had lunch with a generous cop friend of mine at the Prince Pizzeria on Route 1. The restaurant features a huge replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, only it is spelled pizza. My father took us there years ago, and of course, the fading memories of my parents suddenly became clear as we seated ourselves to feast on fried calamari and chicken wings.

After a small meal and trading tales about the old neighborhood, my friend and I parted company. We checked into our room at the motel before we made the three-mile ride to Revere.

We visited my uncle before we touched down at my sister’s three-story home, where 25 family members and friends waited to devour a 20-course meal complete with shrimp linguini and succulent stuffed mushrooms. The difficult part of my visit with relatives is glancing at our family home, which was sold eight months ago after my father died. It is next to my uncle’s house. When I stood before Al and Louise’s house, a house that once provided shelter to a loving family of six, I wanted to see my dad part the curtains at the picture window and beckon us to come inside to see mom, but my parents are gone.

The curtains were closed, anyway, and the my parents’ home, a loving, a modest home that was built in 1966, was occupied by new owners.

I turned and headed for the car, vowing not to spoil the holiday with my brief bout of melancholy.

I arrived at my sister’s home and was given a hero’s welcome. My mood improved with each hug I received from family members.

We ate, drank and we were merry despite the loss of loved ones, but I swear the warm weather helped us all feel better. We held a Yankee swap on my sister’s deck Christmas Eve. Nobody wore a jacket as a full Christmas moon appeared and lit up the yuletide sky. It was like a late spring day in the Greater Boston area.

A gift from the past

The kitchen table in any Italian home is a meeting place for the family. That was true for our clan as well.

After my parents passed, we divided up everything, including the Christmas decorations last April. When we decorated our tree and hung my parents decorations at my home, we discovered a Christmas ornament that my parents never gave their niece.

We gathered around at my sister’s home and presented our niece with the intended gift from her grandmother. I don’t know why the holiday ornament remained in a box downstairs in my parents’ home for the past 27 years. Perhaps, my mom forgot or she was waiting to give it to her niece at the right moment. The small mystery didn’t matter. The ornament has been delivered 27 years later.

Maybe, that small reminder of my parents was our small Christmas miracle this season. We certainly needed one after losing so many important people in our lives.

Christmas by the beach

Imagine walking the beach on Christmas day in spring-like temperatures with NO snow on the ground!

We checked out early and headed to Revere Beach, where the temperature was a balmy 65 degrees Christmas morning. Runners and bikers dressed in T-shirts and shorts wished us a Merry Christmas as they raced by on the boulevard. We spent over an hour walking on the sand and marveling at the warm temperatures. Winter set up shop by Thanksgiving and last Christmas was bleak and cold.

The walk, the sound of the waves and salt air presented us with Christmas morning that we would never be forgotten.

My mother loved the beach and my parents would buy coffee and sit on the wall during warm summer nights and chilly autumn days.

I felt them both in my heart this holiday. They were right there with us as we briskly walked along the sandy New England beach. My parents gave me life and a lifetime of love, and my sweet memories of them keep me going through each season of our lives.

Perhaps Christmas also serves to remind us of what is truly important in our lives.