Celebrating an honorary football player

When time ran out on the digital clock at Helling Stadium, which marked the conclusion of another hard-fought contest, the scoreboard also displayed a very disappointing end for the Ellwood City Wolverines junior high school football team, as they fell short in a last-ditch effort against the New Brighton Lions in the 31-27 rout.

However, the short ride back to the church parsonage proved to be far more interesting than the game itself as I sat in the way back of our family station wagon with Robert G. “Robbie” Brough, Jr. and Robert “Mags” Magnifico — both of whom were spending the night with me in the newly christened garage attic hideout.

It would’ve been off the hook if the three of us were out there on the gridiron together.

“That’s debatable,” suggested Mags with a great deal of skepticism in his voice as he gave a brief description for the less glamorous side of tossing around the pigskin. “If you add up all the practices in between our games, playing football is a very grueling and tiring sport; so, you probably wouldn’t enjoy it as much as you might think.”

Besides, you’re a lot tougher than both of us.

You can’t pull the wool over the eyes of a seasoned shepherd.

Alright, I’ll prove it.

How many times have you fallen during your whole entire life?

Probably a gazillion, and I have the scars to prove it.

What do you do after falling down?

I get back up.

Exactly!

No matter what life throws at you or how hard things may become, you always get back up, brush yourself off and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

That takes great fortitude!

“We only play football once a week,” reasoned Robbie, raising an index finger into the air before comparing it to the more difficult challenges I face on a daily basis. “On the other hand, you’re on the battlefield of life every single day, conquering those chains that bind you due to your disability; so, hear me when I say that you’re much tougher than we’ll ever be.”

But that still would’ve been awesome if I were out there to catch my brother’s 45-yard pass to run it in for a game-winning touchdown.

After glancing at one another for a split second, my boon companions both flashed their pearly whites at me prior to saying, “Most definitely!”

I’m also glad that youns both took showers in the locker room following the game; otherwise, you’d probably stink to high heaven.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the pair of gridiron ballers had me pinned at the bottom of a high-spirited dogpile laughing like a wild hyena as Dad pulled the horseless carriage in front of the Cape Cod-style dwelling on North Street.

Consider this your initiation as an honorary Ellwood City Wolverines football player.

Upon climbing out from the beige 1975 Plymouth Voyager with their rolled-up sleeping bags and pillows in hand, my invited guests placed the overnight paraphernalia in the entryway before I introduced them to my paternal grandparents — who had journeyed from the Empire State to attend a few of their athletic grandson’s sporting events.

Grandma and Pappy Price, these are two of my best buddies from junior high school who play on the same football team as John.

It’s very nice to meet you both.

“Look at the head of thick red locks on this one,” noted the family matriarch with considerable enthusiasm when comparing her own auburn hair to that of my redheaded confidant. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this one could undoubtedly be mistaken for one of my red-haired grandchildren; so, you best get over here and give your grandmother a hug.”

“Since I have a few dark-haired grandchildren, you could pass for one of Marcus Welby, M.D.’s cousins as well,” she added while eyeballing the black-haired Italian.

We like this outspoken lady.

Shortly after the matronly woman with black-rimmed spectacles finished greeting the two Robs with love and affection, I showed them the way to the half-bath on the main level and the full-bath at the top of the enclosed L-shaped staircase on the second floor; after which I scampered into the basement in search of my own sleeping bag.

Unable to locate my outdoor camping bedroll in the bowels of the one-and-a-half-story cottage, I skedaddled to the top end of the house to retrieve the item in question from my walk-in bedroom closet; whereupon I discovered my talkative counterparts discussing the junior high football game with my big brother.

If Matt Daubenspeck had caught the football, we would’ve totally eked out a win over the New Brighton Lions.

There’s always next year.

“Not to break up the party,” I teased with a hint of laughter in my voice upon stepping into our sleeping quarters on the right side of the large hallway. “But we’re never going to get this epic sleepover started if we don’t get the lead out; so, if youns head downstairs, I’ll be right behind you after grabbing my sleeping bag and pillow.”

Nevertheless, the overnight visitors were seated at the dining room table enjoying a generous slice of chocolate cake accompanied by a tall glass of ice-cold milk when I rounded the corner.

An exasperated sigh set my gums a flapping.

Your grandmother gave us a piece of her leftover birthday cake.

That actually sounds like a great idea.

Immediately after spotting my intimate friends and me enjoying a piece of the decadent dessert, the balding stout man sat down at the opposite side of the formal dining table and started licking his chops.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” asked Grandma.

“I’ll have a piece of what they’re having, because I need to keep up my girlish figure,” replied Pappy, rubbing his round belly with a chuckle.

There was a fit of laughter from the other end of the table, and I’m quite certain at least one of these mild-mannered seventh graders snorted milk up their nose.

Upon finishing the bedtime snack, these three musketeers raised their metal forks like makeshift swords and shouted out in unison, “All for one, and one for all.”