An Old Football

“Smooth as a baby’s bottom” is how my brother described our old football. He was right; it was so slick that it was difficult to get a grip on the ball making it a challenge to throw. Now, the ball was old enough that we couldn’t even remember when we had replaced the worn stitching with shoestrings from an old pair of sneakers. We often laughed about our stitching effort.

I remember the day dad brought the ball home. It came with a plastic tee. Up until that time we did not have a real football. We had made our footballs from old socks, paper or anything else we could shape sort of like a football.

Dad wasn’t much of a football fan. He thought it was a game in which large men were free to pummel small men, period. Football held his interest only until the tip-off of the college basketball season. We were surprised the day he pulled into the drive, and tossed us a box with a football and a tee. It was something that we marveled at, and couldn’t wait to start kicking.

We began kicking it off the tee with miserable results, often sending the football to crash into the side of the house. At least, until dad moved us out to the field to play. We enjoyed our new football, kicking it off, tackling one another, laughing, and spending countless hours running in the field.

We played with the ball for about eight years, having thrown thousands of passes and having played hundreds of games with other kids from the neighborhoods we lived in. These were countless hours of fun we had with the ball, sharing good times with each other, family, and making new friends.

Finally, the ball was near flat, and we purchased another, a better quality football. We were home on leave, and I noticed the old ball sitting on the trash pile mom had for me to take out to the bin.

As I tossed the other items in the bin, I thought about all the fun times, friends, and games we had played with this old relic. Laughed to myself at the knocks, the friendships, and good times we had over the years.

I heard a voice call out “Mister, what are you going to do with that ball?”  I responded that I was getting ready to toss it into the trash bin. I turned around to see two boys about 8 years of age.  I recognized them as two brothers from the neighborhood. “Can we have the ball?” I said “sure,” and tossed the ball to one of the boys.

They proceeded to go down the alley tossing the ball from one to the other, laughing and enjoying their newly found treasure.

I was soon off to my duty station in Germany, and never saw the boys or the ball again. It was always my hope that this old childhood treasure of ours brought the two brothers closer together, and gave them countless hours of great American fun.

Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h

Sunday Morning With Lindsey Nelson

Former Senior Staff Writer

at Fanstop.com. 

Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h

The first crisp Sunday morning of fall brings memories of long ago when the Notre Dame Fighting Irish rarely lost, and my cousin Tim and I relished in their victories. A simple time measured in the success of Notre Dame rather than our personal plight.

When times were hard but our family bonded tight.

Our Sunday mornings were filled the savory smells of frying eggs, grandma’s gravy simmering over on the stove. The call of her homemade biscuits baking would awake us from our sleep. Your stomach would begin to growl as the aroma drifted through the house.

Our grandparents did their best to help their two struggling daughters with seven children between them. My grandfather, who survived marching across France with Patton’s Third Army (a matter he rarely spoke of) would offer up thanks for God’s blessings. It was rare that a morsel was left on the table. It was a time of a lot of talk around the table, and no one needed to be encouraged to eat.

Following the breakfast, my grandparents were off to church. My grandfather was the pastor of a small country church. Dishes were done, and my cousin Tim and I settled in for the replay of Saturday’s Notre Dame football game. The telecasts would begin with Lindsey Nelson introducing himself “Hello, I am Lindsey Nelson.” To us he seemed like an uncle that was about to retell us of the game from the previous day. Unlike now, it was a time when we could only get three channels, and on a good day we could get Channel Six out of Indianapolis.

We would rush outside no matter the weather and begin to let our imaginations run wild with Notre Dame football. We had a well-worn football that was almost too slick to handle with our small hands from years of usage. We would toss the football all afternoon reliving the highlights of the game.

It was also the glorious time to follow the Notre Dame Fighting Irish under Ara Parseghian known as the “era of Ara.” In our minds, they never lost. On that rare occasion that Notre Dame would lose, we would run our plays that saved the game for the old Notre Dame. Occasionally, we would allow our brothers to participate, but not often. It was our imagination, our world. We were fans despite a high school kid telling us we couldn’t root for Notre Dame because we were not Catholic. It didn’t stop us. 

Notre Dame Fighting Irish football on those Sunday mornings was fuel for our imagination. No video games, computers or other gadgets kids enjoy today; just two boys, a football, and a free Sunday in football season.

We have gone our different paths in life. I enlisted in the Air Force, and my cousin Tim joined the Marines. I am quiet and reflective, and Tim is boisterous and quick to opinion. We were and are more than cousins: We are brothers. As I grow older, I fondly reflect on those simpler times and pleasures more and more often.