Sweatin' to the oldies

Sunday afternoon was one of those gloriously warm mid-spring days in Phoenix. The mercury was feeling up the 100 mark like it was an easy prom date and the sun was set to toast.

These are the kind of days I love. A real meat broiler that pinks the skin. A hair fryer that singes split ends and straightens the curlies. A peanut roaster that cooks some knuckleheads tootsies when he decides to do the hot coal walk across the dirt driveway to grab the mail.

It was likely our last sub-ohmygodit'sfriggin'hot day, and the perfect weather to play football.

That's right, with the thermometer tickling the one-zero-zero level, us gridiron gladiators (we all watch the game better than we play it) took the field one last time before our nut sacks shrivel to raisins and our skin turns into slabs of human-flavored jerky.

We came prepared: sunscreen, cooler with water (and beer), ankle braces, knee braces, shoe padding and one doctor (with this group, you can never be too prepared). That's right, I invited ol' Doogie Howser, who said he wanted to play the next time we got together. I'm guessing Doogie saw dollar signs when he realized the majority of us were on the evil side of 30. I'll give it to the doc, he know how to drum up business. The game is two-hand touch, but he made it two-hand shove football, and as his target writhed on the ground - often whimpering - he'd flick his business card at the wounded player. "Take that, news bitch! Office hours are 8-to-5."

My fear of Doogie was misplaced, however, as I watched two fellow news hacks (the high school sports perv and a copy editing monkey - just like me) run into each other like they were chasing down the last donut in the newsroom. It was no surprise to the group that invovled in the play was the human weapon of mass destruction - for safety reasons (mine, not his - I'm afraid he'll kick in my other ankle) we'll call him Mr. M. This the same gent who, in January when the sun was out and about as warm as a pack of frozen peas, angry that I'm pickin' a pass in front of him hauled me down and when no one was lookin', turned my left ankle into one of those soft pretzel you get overly hairy man on a New York street corner.

But as the sun cooked every fiber of our beings and forced us into water breaks every three minutes I wondered how the dudes who get paid a few bucks to play football can work in wearing 50 pounds of plastic, aluminum and steal while running full steam at a line of 11 similarly clad players. We'd hike the ball, blast ten steps down the field, wave our arms half-assedly and hoped the QB would throw it to someone else on our four-man squad so I (or the other guy) didn't have to run. We'd then return to the huddle gasping the remaining oxygen in the Phoenix metro area. We could have been down wind from a dairy farm and a port-a-potty depository, and we'd still suck wind like we hust finished climbing Mount Everest.

I'd like to blame it on the heat - it's not like the sun is going to talk back if I do blame it - that's what wore most of us down. It's hard to play when you have Niagra Falls filling your eye sockets like little tidal pools. The majority of us wannabes might have 30 in the rearview mirror, but it was the sun that kept kicking us in the nuts.

By the end of the game, we were so drained a beer didn't even sound good. Of course, that could be because I'm a cheap bastard and only brought a twelver of Natural Light - slightly better tasting than New Orleans gutter water after Mardi Gras.

At the end of the day, though, pink and heat exhausted, sore from my extra-long ear hairs to my pointy pinky toe nail, everyone kept asking the same question:

"So, when' the next game?"

I hear July is nice time for afternoon of football. I wonder if there'll be any takers.