Missed Tackles and Missed Opportunities.

I was a small high school sophomore, maybe 105 pounds, dripping wet. The Paramus Spartans football uniform didn’t fit; my knee pads were around my shins; when the helmet, which was too large, shifted, I couldn’t see; my shoulder pads were way to big; and generally running was a challenge because my whole uniform seemed to be working against me.

Probably the only thing that did fit were my shoes and my mouth guard.

I was not in the starting lineup, far from it. The coach put me in one game sometime in the second half as a defensive back on the right side. To my memory, it wasn’t really a gamble putting me in because the game as already out of reach and we were winning.

The first play the other team ran was a sweep and I was the only player between the running back and the end zone.

I saw him barreling toward me and I put my head down, probably closed my eyes and tried to tackle him with my arm. Arm tackles are the worst way to try and bring someone down, unless you are really strong, which I was not. The back got by me and raced into the end zone for a touchdown and I was humiliated.

The only thing I can compare it with is on the baseball field and praying that the ball is not hit to me and when it is, watching it skirt between my legs as if it had eyes.

After missing the tackle, I was crushed and tears welled up but that was the last thing I wanted anyone to see, especially the cheerleaders, which included Marcie, a pretty, thing girl who I had a crush on but was the steady of Mike the quarterback.

So after I blew the tackle, I retreated back to the bench with my head down because I did not want to make eye contact with the coach, let alone other players. That was it for the game for me. I don’t remember if we won or lost, just that I gave in to my fear of being hurt if I tackled the right way, with my shoulder into his chest or legs.

I played in a few other games that season. The coach tried me on the offensive line, which was a joke because I was too small. I played running back one time and remember being handed the ball and immediately I was swamped by a swarm of opposing players and broke my pinkie finger. The only position I didn’t play was waterboy.

I wanted to do well and hear the cheerleaders cheering for me. I wanted to go home after the game and be proud of myself. But I never heard the cheers and really just wanted to forget the whole experience. And I could because none of my friends were into sports and could care less if I tried an arm tackle. But I cared.

We had some pretty good players on the team. The best was Glenn, a bruising, all-county running back who later played at the University of Arizona only to transfer back to Montclair State College. During one practice, I was on defense and Glenn caught a pass and was slowing down, as it was just a practice. I ran after him, caught him, jumped on his back and brought him down and as we got up he smiled and said good tackle, meaning I would never be able to tackle him if he was hurtling toward me at full speed.

The quarterback was Mike, a good looking boy who was the most popular kid on the team and probably in the school. Second and third string quarterbacks were two kids both named Rob and both were not good athletes though they thought they were. I admire the Robs for at least trying for the quarterback position, who as field general is arguably the most important player on the field.

One Rob later became an architect. I don’t know what happened to the other Rob. Mike was on his third marriage, as far as I heard.

Another player was Butch who also was a third baseman on my Little League team. He was a regular kid who played defensive cornerback and to my memory, never tried an arm tackle. Butch was a tough kid who wasn’t afraid to get hurt, not like me.

All in all, high school football was an embarrassing, humiliating and ego-deflating experience that I would rather have never had. Other than that is was fun. The only thing it taught me was that I was too small and too frightened and would not fit in with the bigger, braver students. I wanted to but it wasn’t going to happen.

That was 55 years ago and it is all still burned into my memory and my psyche. My chest still tightens when I think of it and it seems like it happened just last week. I like to say that I learned an important life lesson from the ill-timed, attempt at an arm tackle. That lesson would be that I should not let important moments run away from me because of my own fears.

Instead, the lesson was that I was too small to play football and was better suited to wrestling where opponents are grouped by weight.

That day on the football field has stayed with me for my entire life as a cautionary tale. I fantasize that I’m back on the field, the runner is coming at me and I hit him so hard with my shoulder that his helmet goes flying and the cheerleaders start cheering for me.

Psychologists say that past experiences can predict future experiences. I wonder how I would be if I had not given in to fear of getting my face smashed by the high school player who was running full steam at me. I wonder how he felt knowing that he was facing possible injury and I wonder how relieved he must have been when he saw me try to tackle him with my arms.

Maybe I would have gone on to star, attend a big name football college and married Marcie, the cheerleader, before going on to a successful career in mergers and acquisitions.

How many figurative arm tackles have I missed in my life, how many times I have seen danger coming at me just like that high school football player? And how many times did I run away from the challenge.

But I’m only 70 so maybe there is still time to get over it and to face my fears rather than to turn and run.