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Kids’ Sports

Copyright © 2005, W. David Tarver

The year was nineteen sixty-something, and the place was the backyard of our home at 813 East 6^th Street in Flint, Michigan. A group of us kids were engaging in one of our favorite pastimes, a backyard football game – a full-on, no equipment, tackle football game. All of my buddies were there: the Thompsons, the Shaw boys, the Fortes, and the Alexander brothers, Dallas and James. We called Dallas "Black Dal", because he had by far the darkest skin on the block. We called James "Booderakus", because he was by far the biggest guy on the block.

Despite being brothers, Dallas and James were often at odds, and this day was no exception. In fact, for some reason James was beside himself with anger, and that anger was directed at his brother. When we chose sides for our game, Dallas and James ended up on opposite sides of the ball. As soon as we started playing, the taunting began. James was daring Dallas to carry the ball, and Dallas, despite being half his brother’s size, gave right back. "What if I do carry the ball? You won’t be able to catch me, you big fat slob!"

That was the wrong thing to say. The first time Black Dal carried the ball, he attempted to run straight up the middle. I never saw Booderakus move so fast – he came charging at Dallas like a wild boar, and he stuck him right in the legs. There was a sickening crack, and then Black Dal was just lying there on the backyard grass, writhing in pain and screaming in anguish. "You fool! Why did you hit me like that? You stupid fool!"

The rest of us kids were gathered around Dallas, but James didn’t even come over to look. He just walked away muttering, "I told you not to carry the ball."

After a few minutes inspection, it was clear that Dallas’ leg was broken. I went into the garage and got a wheelbarrow, and a few of us kids lifted Dallas into it. Then we wheeled him down the street to his house and dumped him on his front lawn. After that, we went back to my house and resumed our game.

On a later occasion, there was the football game where everyone on the block wanted to kill me. We were playing a Sunday afternoon game in the yard at the end of our street, and I showed up in a full Detroit Lions uniform. By full, I mean including helmet, pads, official jersey, and pants. All of the other kids were in their usual street clothes, of course.

Why did I wear the Detroit Lions uniform? Well, I had just finished the Ford-sponsored NFL Pass, Punt and Kick competition, and the winner of the competition was awarded a Detroit Lions uniform. No, I didn’t win the competition. I didn’t even come close to winning. I was, however, successful at getting my mother to buy me a complete uniform at Sears as a consolation.

When I showed up at the game wearing that uniform, every kid on the block wanted my head. How dare that sissy Tarver show up at the game wearing equipment! Did he think he was better than everyone else? My own teammates made no effort to block for me – they just wanted to see me get hurt. The pads in my uniform saved me from injury, and I survived that game, but I learned my lesson – I never wore that stupid Lions uniform again.

In recent years, I have thought about both of those long-ago incidents a lot. Usually, I think about them when people say that parents have to be involved in order for kids to participate in sports. Our parents were almost never around when we played our games around the neighborhood, or even later when we participated in organized sports. Our parents were too busy working and trying to make ends meet in order to shepherd us to every sporting event and stand on the sidelines while we played. Still, we played our games, and we learned important lessons about sports and life.

"Wait a minute", you might be saying. "Your parents weren’t around, and you guys broke a kid’s leg and took him home in a wheelbarrow! Your own friends would have broken your legs if you hadn’t been wearing that stupid Lions uniform with pads!"

Yeah, that’s true, but in all the years we played sports together back on the block, these are the worst incidents I can remember. I have fond memories of our kids’ sports, and my friends and I still talk about some of those games today – especially the game where James "Booderakus" Alexander broke his brother Dallas’ leg, and the game where everybody on 6^th street wanted to kill David Tarver.

March 8, 2005

Red Bank, NJ