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Sandlot Football |
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| Must
have been the fall of 1965 when I was in my room reading a book.
A knock at the door, and my mother requested I come to the door, someone
was asking for me.
We had moved from a remote valley in the Mendocino Mountains and I was accustomed to having my own space and not getting too involved in neighborhood relationships for reasons I will cover at a later time. Two neighborhood guys wanted to get to know me, and wanted to play some football at a elementary school just a couple blocks down the street. That I could relate to from years of playing sandlot football with my older brother and the games the neighborhood guys would conjure up. |
These two were a bit younger and a lot smaller than me, (I was a little
big for my age,) so we just messed around.
I think we were playing touch football, but their idea of touch was to grab a hold of my legs and see if they could get the flag by tackling me. Great fun for me, and they enjoyed the ride on my ankles as I slowly ran carrying them with me across the make-believe end zone. Coming from that small town, was a break in the fast pace of living in Sacramento, before that New York, and before that Nuremberg Germany. Being an Army Brat kept me on the move for most of my formative years. |
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