Sidelines
WHEN I was young, and there was still sugar cane on the mountain, my dad would throw me footballs and I would run under them until he was too tired to throw any more. Remembering the joy of football
Every night, I would ask him, and with each pass he would make me run just a little farther, just a little faster to catch that ball. I dove into bushes. I was bouncing off trees.
We turned green from the grass stains in those days, the boys and I. There were games of tackle in the yard, or at Waiohinu Park, and there was joy in every hit. And to this day I can still feel the big games and the great catches. I can still see those passes that appeared out of a forest of arms. Bouncing off the hibiscus hedge, landing on my feet. I still see tackles I broke when I was 8 years old.
When we ran, we were Gary Allen. We rushed the passer like Fred Dean.
On the beach, we loped over the rocky terrain, picking each uneven footstep in split-second decisions in midair, better than any foot quickness drill dreamed up by any coach anywhere. We cut back at the last second to race away from the incoming tide. We leapt over the goal line and into the waves.
At school, honed by countless games of Chasemaster and Prisoner's Base, there were Super Bowls at every recess. If you were lucky, Mr. Sakata, a stocky man who was everyone's mentor even if they didn't know it (and even if he didn't either), was on your team. He would play quarterback, sprinting out of danger, lofting you passes, willing his team -- he always played with the younger guys against the older -- to do things you couldn't have done if he hadn't told you you would.
Looking back, I don't know how he could play so hard in nice clothes, how afterward he never seemed to be too sweaty to teach us history and art, how such a serious man could play our games just the way we did.
(Looking back, his 15-minute slices of childhood, these short outbursts of intense anaerobic activity, were probably how he stayed sane enough to keep from killing us all.)
On television, there were "Great Moments in Rainbow History," Dana McLemore returning that punt again and again and again. Rick Quan picked games against a penguin. On Monday nights, Howard's voice made you run into the room.
There were the nights at the games with whistles and shouts, the chili and rice, the excitement and the colors and the helmets on our guys that said "Banzai," and "Whatever it Takes." Hilo was here. Or Kona. Or HPA. And it was possible, this night, you could feel it in your entire body. You could feel the football coursing through your veins, pounding through the heart that was bursting through your chest.
The hitting. The sight of the ball in the air in the night sky. The glint, the glow everything had sparkling under those lights. It was magical, all of it. Back then, going to high school football games was a miracle.
But the real action was in the shadows, when someone produced a Nerf football, and then one kid came and then another, and more. And soon we were caked in perspiration and dust, tackling one another, tearing away, scoring touchdowns in the dark.
The notes of the band were playing for someone else, but we heard them and we ran, and we dreamed.
We'd take breaks, huffing and puffing, cheeks flushed, damp hair pasted to our foreheads, to see how our heroes were doing. And to hit the giant light poles that went BOOONNNNGG! when you whacked them.
At last, the Pop Warner pads, anxiously taking them home to hoard over. Two of these, two of these -- ai! Panic! Only one! (Tailbone pad.)
And someone kicking an extra point into the coach's bolohead and all of us running until none of us could move.
There were those precious seconds of stretching, lying on your back in shoulder pads, the most comfortable feeling in the world. For those stolen moments, before they made you get up or turn over, you felt like you could sleep forever.
It was the real thing at last, the uniforms and the bruises and the broken bones, the practices and the games, the butterflies beforehand that make you smile without even knowing it.
On Fridays we wore our football jerseys. "This is my Friday shirt," an eighth-grader said. "I'll wear this shirt every Friday for the rest of my life."
Football season starts again Aug. 31. Eastern Illinois at Aloha Stadium.
Hold on. We'll make it. We'll make it yet. And until then, remember. Remember and dream.
Kalani Simpson can be reached at ksimpson@starbulletin.com