Gotta Eat More Potatoes!

The middle aged fat men sit at the table working on their teams. Their game doesn't resemble what they played in high school. There's no sus­pense gripping the pit of the stomach before the game, no pep rallies, no nubile young cheerleaders focusing their whole attention on them. No long bus rides from Pomeroy, Asotin, or Touchet, basking in the joy of victory. Their mus­cles- their stamina-have not been tested in years. When they finish drafting their play­ers, their work will largely be done. Then they will sit back and check their statistics for the next sixteen weeks.

It's called football, and 27 million Americans play it. They average nine hours each week. Nine hours of football. Fantasy football. And it's all done on paper.

Time was when these men were young-lithe, energetic, fit, enjoying the game and the exercise-the feel of their bodies in top condition. Too bad they couldn't stay that way.

In small towns like Waits­burg, Dayton, Prescott, young people are funneled into the football program, if not as players, then as cheerleaders, boosters, pep band, and spec­tators.

Students must show enthusiasm at all the games, cheer lustily at the pep rallies, and make the team's success foremost in their minds. If they don't, there is something rather dysfunctional about them. And the town consid­ers it an entitlement that its Friday night entertainment be furnished at school expense. The local newspapers are full of praise and pictures of the high school heroes--foot­ball stars who will never again receive such concentrated notoriety as they will enjoy in high school.

Years ago, after they left high school, some of them tried to join a football team. But there were no teams to join--no 100+ yard lawns with goal posts. And where were the other hearty souls who might help form the team? One might purchase a uniform, helmet and pads, but where could he buy the opposition, the coaches, the cheering crowds?

So he plays on, check­ing the statistics his players earned this Sunday, which will tell him if he won or lost. He carefully records the results, ignoring the pressing demands of heart, arteries, bulging stomach, and aching back.

To be sure, he does get something from the glory days. Finding himself seated next to an interesting woman in a bar, or in church, he can casually lean over and, in a smoky voice say to her, "You know, we beat DeSales when I was a junior." And after finally getting an interview with the director of personnel, he can mention that his future employer should know that he caught seven passes in the District Championship game. But here he sits, gathering his statistics on a Sunday eve­ning. It's a beautiful, balmy evening for football. But he has no team. It's also a grand evening for tennis. He might even squeeze in a quick nine holes of golf. A line or two of bowl­ing, or a couple hours of flyfishing. Swimming, maybe? How about canoeing, rowing or rock climbing? Badmin­ton? Archery? Handball? Ice skating? Lawn bowling or bicycling? In winter, maybe some downhill skiing or cross country? Quoits, anyone?

Sorry. He never learned any of these, because his school spent its energy and its money on football and other team sports. Since he never played these sports, he has little interest in any of them. Like some Pied Piping cheerleader, the passions of small-town young are chan­neled into a dead end-the great sump of team sports. But for this, he might engage in recreation he could play until he was old. Teams might be great for spectators; they are dead ends for recreation.

If we thought about it, the question would glare at us, demanding a difficult answer. What is the real reason for high school interscholastic team sports? Just how im­portant is beating Pomeroy, Dayton and DeSales? The Romans enjoyed their exciting, bloody spectacles at the amphitheater. But does the team sports program have any object other than an ex­travaganza for Waitsburg's own brand of Patrician? What malignant impulse drives us to dash the future of our young for a rousing Friday night un­der the lights? The Pied Piper is subtle-a coach confronts a large sophomore who wants noth­ing more than to run cross country and play chess. "Why aren't you with the football program? The team needs you. Get out there and help your school!" The boy capitu­lates. Later, he is told, "Hey kid, bulk up! Touchet's line averages 220 pounds. If we're going to beat anyone, you gotta eat more potatoes. Bulk up; you owe it to your school."

And to the 143-pound running back, he cajoles, "If you ever want to play college ball, work hard and keep your mind on football. Live foot­ball,

breathe football, eat and sleep football." In a similar breath, the band teacher says to a student, "We have a Sou­saphone

with your name on it. Come on, the band needs you. Your school needs you!"

Have you ever seen an adult playing a Sousaphone?

And here resounds the big­gest lie of all, "You owe it to your school; you must support your school. Your school is depending on you!"

Nonsense! A student owes nothing to his school beyond civility, adherence to the rules, and earning the very best education he can get. And this includes physical education. This education is not for ap­plause,

not for headlines in the Times, not for another banner in the trophy case. His educa­tion is serious stuff; it must last a lifetime. "But football will make him a team player!" Sure it will; a team player whose paramount instinct is obedi­ence, whether to the coach, to his sergeant, or to his boss. Is he taught to think for himself, to meet the problematic cog­nitive dissonances of life by making informed and coura­geous decisions for the good of his community, his country, or his neighbor? The way our society definesit today, there is more of hypocrisy than no­bility in "team player." Is it simply our blindness to the education of our young, to our collective duty to help them fashion the best future they possibly can, that creates our selfish fascination with this thing we call team sports? Through it all, our middle aged football player toils on, collecting his statistics. At the end of the day, will he retire to his bed congratulating himself on a "game well played?" Or will he dream wistfully of bet­ter times, when life seemed more real, more purposeful, more dynamic than anything since? Will he dream of those four years, when breaking the huddle seemed a slice of the only epic that would define his life?