It had to be around the second grade when I first played in a neighborhood football game. One of the fourth grade kids took me under his wing and explained where to stand and what to do.
I was wearing my street clothes, but a couple of the kids from the parish were still wearing their school uniforms. My Oldman would have killed me if he caught me outside after school in my nice pants and dress shirt.
The kids kept calling the grass next to the playground the gridiron. It seemed large at the time. I stopped back twenty years later and it was about the size of three basketball courts lined up next to each other. Back in the day it was as big as Soldier Field.
All the older kids were arguing about who was going to be Dick Butkus. Everyone wanted to be Dick Butkus, even the black kids. Actually one of the black kids was a Viking fan. He wanted to be Alan Page. I didn’t know that black kid because he went to the public school, but nobody liked him. Not because he was black, but because he was a Viking fan and an Atlanta Braves fan.
That was the great thing that I recall from our youth. A time before we discovered racism. I thought all black people liked the Vikings until I was in fifth grade. That’s when the black kids all wanted to be Walter Payton.
The late afternoon sun was at a low autumn angle. The air was cold, but our jackets were all piled up on the side. That weekday afternoon was the first time I touched a leather football in a real neighborhood game. It had “The Duke” stamped on one side. I knew on that day what I wanted for Christmas in 1973.
The early sunset of fall was quickly settling in on our football game. The mom of the kid who eventually got to play Dick Butkus called him in for dinner. That triggered the next “I’m Dick Butkus” argument. Obviously the next number fifty one was one of the older kids.
By the time my mom called me out of the game I was a seasoned Chicago Bear. The last three kids left were me, the black kid who played Alan Page and the big kid who owned “The Duke.” My dad referred to that kid's family as the Lugans. A couple years later I realized they were Lithuanian and their name was Stankevicius.
I walked home that day a little bit older, a little bit more confident about myself. That night I wore my Chicago Bears helmet to bed. One of my dad’s railroad buddies gave it to me. It was his son’s helmet that he outgrew. It had a white “C” on both sides. Just like the one Dick Butkus wore.
My first season of neighborhood football was the last season Butkus roamed the gridiron at Soldiers Field. It didn’t matter to me because Butkus was the only defensive player that I wanted to be.
I’d do anything to still have that old Bears helmet. I’d do anything to find those guys from that football game at the park. I’d do anything to walk home and have dinner with my parents and tell them that I wanted a football for Christmas.
Rest in Peace Mr. Butkus. You get to run around heaven with new knees today. Slap Bill Munson in the mouth and any other Detroit Lion players that you come across on heavens gridiron.
