Colton Pilakowski
The field wasn’t really a field at all. There were no numbers, or lines, or refs. It was just a patch of grass behind the school shed, worn down to the dirt in most spots. The playground sat to the east, kids swinging and running around on the jungle gym. For us, we were too mature for that. Recess was no longer about climbing, sliding, or swinging. By that time, we were in the fourth or fifth grade, and football had overtaken our recess. It wasn’t just a game; it was an obsession. That was the reason we sprinted to the wire rack to grab the ball moments after the recess bell rang.
The ball was almost as legendary as the games that were played with it. It wasn’t a regulation-sized ball, but a beat-down one with pigskin peeling and laces hanging on for dear life, ripping out one at a time. Sometimes, Mr. Little, our P.E. teacher, would bring it out, but more often than not, one of the kids, usually Reeves or Sutton, would get to the bin first and come running across the gravel holding it like a trophy.
Teams were always formed on Mondays. Some weeks we had 20 kids, and other weeks we had just the core 8 or 9. That didn’t matter, though. Captains were chosen simply by who could yell the loudest and who was more popular. Usually, we had one captain from each class and alternated which class got first pick from week to week. Teams didn’t take long to shape. Everyone’s hearts were always pounding because this was one of the scariest parts of the week. The entire fate of recess that week depended on how the choices of the captains played out. I was hardly ever the first pick. Kids like Sutton or Trace could beat us all down the field and had some good hands, so they got picked first. I could outrun most people and could run some pretty good routes, separating myself from my classmates. That was enough to make me useful and a high pick. In our little NFL world, that was all anyone wanted.
The plays were never drawn on paper. Calling them plays might even be a stretch. Usually, the two or three kids who could catch a ball or outrun their coverage would come over to the quarterback, and he would draw a route on the ball. “Go long and I'll find you somewhere down there.” That was Jarek’s go-to. Half the time, the ball didn’t even get down there, but when it did, we would puff our chests like Russell Wilson or Peyton Manning just called the game-winning play. We thought we were pros, and that the patch of grass was a stadium, and tens of thousands of people were watching. Usually, on those plays, that’s when the arguing started. “That was pass-interference,” or “You didn’t make it into the endzone.” The boundaries of the field were made up, and there were no refs to make any calls, so it egged on. Eventually, after two or three minutes of arguing, someone would always suggest the best solution: “Replay!” It never really solved the problem, but that was good enough to get us up and running again.
One afternoon still plays in my mind like it happened yesterday. It was early spring, and there was still snow on the ground. It was the kind of day when the air stings your lungs and you see the puff of white come out of your mouth when trying to take a deep breath. Jarek was the quarterback for the other team that day. Recess was coming to an end, and we got told we had time for one last play. He thought he had come up with two clever cross routes that twist up the defensive backs. I was one of them. He snapped the ball, dropped back, and launched a nuke downfield. It looked too high, too far, and not really meant for anyone. It was a prayer. Everyone sprinted towards it, feet slipping in the snow. Somehow, I tracked the ball down, and my legs began to pump way faster than I thought they could. The ball sailed back down, spiraling closer, and I found myself underneath it. It smacked into my chest, and it took me a second to catch my breath. I turned around and ran it to the other end. I threw my arms in the air with joy. “Touchdown!” Half the group cheered while the other half groaned, knowing they had just lost the game. For once, though, something felt different. I wasn’t just another player on the field; I was the hero on the last play at recess. That feeling stuck with me the rest of the day, and I was walking on clouds.
What stands out most about these games, though, isn’t the chaos or the crazy touchdowns and picks; it's the way everything else seemed to disappear when we stepped onto the field. Nothing mattered once you stepped across the concrete border of the playground. For those twenty minutes every day, we were locked into a game that is bigger than ourselves. Looking back now, I realize those games weren’t just preparing us for high school football. They were preparing us for life in ways that we couldn’t see at the time. We learned loyalty when we stuck with the same team, even when the other one was up by five or six touchdowns. We learned to show resilience when we dropped those wide-open passes and had to get ready for the next play. We learned leadership, even if it was just deciding who played quarterback or settling those petty out-of-bounds arguments.
Now the football games seem quite different. Most of us still play ball, but now it’s under the Friday night lights, or the afternoon sun, instead of on that dirt patch behind the school shed.
Different jerseys, different plays, different players. Most of them are still wearing the red and white, repping the Badgers. Some repping teams out east. For me, though, I’m reliving those same plays in the world of six-man. We may not line up across from each other anymore, but every time I pull the straps on my helmet, part of those flashy plays in recess cross my mind. The confidence I feel now, the way I trust my team, even that fire that makes me push through tough practices and games, it all started on that little dirt field.
