The weather has been oppressive lately. Temperature in the 90’s. High levels of humidity. It’s August. The dog days.
My late Shetland Sheepdog never liked the heat—she preferred the cool surfaces inside the air conditioned house or lying in the shade of the silver maple tree on our front lawn. She didn’t like playing ball and she sure as heck hated football season, as the leader of her pack would scream at the television when the Jets would once more make a boneheaded play.
NFL training camps and college football practices are invading the sanctity of baseball. With as many injuries as the New York Yankees have in April.
I know that I am jaded because of the high salaries so many players receive, or in the case of too many college football players, very sweet N-I-L deals. Yet I think of those who aren’t going to make it through training camp, their dreams cut way short and facing an uncertain reality.
Even more so, I think of those players who aren’t getting N-I-L money—the walk-ons, the reserves, who are sweating it out on a daily basis with the faint hope of impressing a coach to perhaps make it onto a special team, thus making the sacrifices worthwhile. There are the kids at the Division II and III levels who play for the fun of the game or who are first-generation college students looking to make their lives better in such an uncertain economic time.
Then there are the high school kids who have risen from the semi-seriousness of youth football. They seek the glory associated with a football career that so very few ever ascend to.
I saw two boys in Springfield peddling on bicycles to an alternate field in town for football practice. Since there wasn’t a locker room to dress in, they balanced their pads and helmet on the handlebars as they negotiated the imperfect sidewalks and avoided the cars whizzing by. All of this for a small school team which has little promise of winning titles.
I was once one of those kids. A pudgy 5’2” 150 pound freshman in Highland Park who went out for freshman football because everyone else seemed to (We didn’t have a soccer team back then). I thought that I could throw a ball so far and accurately that I could be a quarterback. And I could tackle, so maybe linebacker was my spot.
In reality, I was a fourth string QB, fourth string running back and a third string linebacker. Eventually I saw action on the kick return team, had one carry for five yards in a rout and enjoyed suiting up in my number 35 jersey which hardly got dirty. Because it was what you did in Highland Park if you had an ounce of athleticism.
I had no business being on that practice field, let alone playing in games. Guys my height without great foot speed aren’t supposed to play football.
I know I suffered a concussion once in summer practice. I hated taking salt pills to help retain water—except that we sweated like banshees in the dust of a repurposed baseball field twice a day in August.
Like me, they all do this for tyrannical coaches who put these athletes through grueling sessions in the blazing sun so that they will be better conditioned when the cold arrives and the games count even more. Each one has their reasons—collectively it is for the glory so few can attain.
The first New York Jets pre-season game of my 50th and last season as a season ticket holder is Friday. In olden times of my youth, the games were referred to as exhibition games—like they are in baseball. Marketing geniuses on Madison Avenue re-branded these almost-meaningless games so that they seemed like they had great importance.
For those trying to overcome rosters loaded with depth, it is the hope that their play will get them another week in camp to showcase their talents. Or that a different franchise might take note and scoop them up when the almost inevitable cuts occur. Or that they go to Canada to play. Or hope that indoor football or the UFL snares them. There is even pro football in Europe, Japan and Mexico.
Many of these NFL players were once stars in high school. They may have received some recognition in college. It is uncertain how many never graduated with a degree in something which could set them up for a different path of success once their playing days were ended.
In a way, I feel sad for those who do not make it in the NFL. For all of the work they put in, many felt they didn’t measure up to what was needed.
Yet they knew what they were getting themselves into. All the days running in the heat, honing their bodies in weight rooms and working with trainers to better themselves. With very little to show for it all but arthritis, joint replacement, concussion-related memory loss and a wide assortment of problems that, years later, may appear as a result of this mania to reach the NFL.
Even those who reach the pinnacle can only last so long. There is another hungry lion waiting to contest the throne. Plus injuries are even more devastating at the highest level when the stakes are the greatest and the speed and size of the players translates into a basic physics theory (see Mean Speed Theorem).
Besides football, so many athletes toil in the heat to prepare for their seasons. Soccer players are far from immune from boiling practices. Runners—whether competitive or just casual—populate the tracks and roadways; the more sane ones try to get their work in before the sun is ablaze and the heat is too much. How many soaked shirts and so much glistening skin do I see from those running?
Basketball goes full force in sweltering gyms or on unforgiving asphalt. Shaping ones game takes repetition and competition. It doesn’t matter if it is pick up hoops or NBA players getting together to train with each other.
This is another sport which I quickly to came realize that the fantasy of shooting hoops on a backboard and rim attached to the high wall over the garage was not reality. 5’5” hoopsters just aren’t bountiful. In the few competitive games I played in during high school and intramurals at F&M, I wasn’t much of a scorer.(yes I did score in most every game I played but double figures—c’mon!) And defense was forgettable, given how everybody else was taller than me.
And of course, baseball thrives in the summertime. Professional baseball is in full throttle, hurtling towards October and the World Series.
I remember the wool uniforms I wore at Franklin and Marshall and how heavy they were. Prior to double knit, breathing fabric for jerseys and pants, the players of yesteryear had to swelter in the heat of some of the hotter places like D.C., St. Louis and Cincinnati, worn down by the clothing they had on. It boggles my mind even more that people attending games actually dressed in ties and jackets and dresses.
In my youth, I played in plenty of early evening games where the fields were unforgiving. So, too, did I play our version of stickball on school playgrounds made of heat-retaining pavement and brick walls. At least I could go home and dunk myself in my backyard pool to cool down.
Because I made All-Star teams and had hardly ever sat on the bench since I was eight years of age, I always felt that baseball was my great equalizer. I could throw as far if not farther than a lot of others. I could steal bases. And I could hit. Nobody discouraged me from having dreams except when prejudice creeped into play, sidelining me in high school.
Even when I knew I wasn’t going to play organized baseball after my freshman year at Highland Park H.S., I never stopped going out in the heat of the day and evening to work on my defense and throwing.
Which is why when I came to F&M, I was the kid they didn’t know about. The one who opened eyes when I threw and hit.
For two years I lived the dream of starting and playing amongst the big boys. Size didn’t matter. All those days and nights in the heat of the Summer paid dividends. Until injuries creeped in, sending my collegiate dreams to the sidelines.
Yes, I played slow-pitch softball. Another summertime pastime. In the heat of D.C. in 1971. And on burnt out grass in parks in Essex County in the 1970’s and 80’s.
I was never a fan of that sport. The size of the ball was too cumbersome and the bats were too small for my taste.
But being on softball teams was the direct by-product of all those countless days of playing in the heat. Which led to my meeting some very influential people in Washington and playing alongside some of the top attorneys and judges in New Jersey. I was hired, in part, at the Office of the Public Defender because they considered me to be a ringer for their moribund team (I hope that wasn’t the primary reason I got the job).
Golf is a very popular sport. So is tennis. The heat never stops those who participate. The smarter ones play in the morning—if they can. This is true whether it is in hot and humid Florida or the toasty Northeast.
When I did play golf, it was when I was in my teens. I wasn’t very good at it. I would be on hot and dry courses in Middlesex County where my ball skidded because there were droughts.
Or if we were in Las Vegas, my father would drop me off at the Stardust, Dunes or Desert Inn courses where the 100 degree temperatures would melt me; I quickly understood why there was water everywhere on the Nevada courses. Standing on putting greens by itself was torture.
I came to understand why golfers have such massive tans, wear light-fitting clothing and sport logos on hats to shade their eyes. They had to be sweating buckets on the PGA Tour because the men wear long pants; the LIV Tour eschews the slacks as does college and amateur play while the women wear shorts because marketing believes it is sexy to watch.
Tennis on hard courts in the United States is brutal. Hard courts are absolute heat traps. Plus the sun can blind you depending on the angle in the sky and how the court is situated.
I would bring extra shirts when playing outdoors—sometimes to give me some relief and sometimes so I wouldn’t sweat in the car driving home. Water jugs were a necessity, for hydration is a must.
Where we have our gym—which itself can get warm and uncomfortable and humid when the doors to the adjacent indoor pool remain open—there is a summer camp and adults take lessons indoors. The kids come out frazzled and the adults invariably complain about the sauna-like conditions they endured.
New paddleball courts were installed recently adjacent to the outdoor tennis courts. This has become a wildly popular sport. Yet I have not seen anybody over the age of 60 playing beyond 10:00 am, likely in fear that they would be felled by heat stroke.
Speaking of which, a New York Jets player was taken from the facility in Florham Park by ambulance to a hospital after passing out. Whether it was a preexisting condition or the oppressive weather, that illuminates the danger of overexertion in the Summer swelter.
Maybe it’s age. I don’t find that lying out in the sun then hopping in a pool, lake or other body of water is what I want to do anymore. Getting tanned was something which I felt made me look healthy.
Now SPF 30 or higher goes on if I venture into the sun for an exercise walk. I can’t imagine lasting more than an hour at a beach without withering.
Sitting outdoors to eat used to be fun. Now it has to be a day where it is 80 degrees and comfortable, in a location devoid of sunshine, with a light breeze for added comfort. Sidewalk eating is a non-starter.
Cooking on the barbecue becomes a race to avoid the high heat generated in addition to the daily temperatures. Timing is everything when escaping the air conditioned comfort of my den to walk onto the skillet disguised as a patio.
Going to games largely used to be uneventful. To begin with, the travel to and from the contest takes about 8 hours. More if I go with Fan X to Baltimore (or our family’s recent 14 hour excursion necessitated by an overheated hotel). Using the New York subways from June to September can be pungent and precarious, in addition to being a heat trap.
High temperatures make the games unenjoyable. Making sure that seats are in the shade is a must.
My NYJ seats are partially in the sun when the season starts, necessitating water bottle refills, cooling towels and suntan lotion. That, along with the cold weather, made my decision to stop after 50 years of a variety of weather very easy to forego (too many lousy teams was a very compelling reason, too).
Now sitting in my den or TV room, with comfort food, easy access to the bathroom and climate control sounds so good. I think I have earned that right. Besides, the Jets have done just fine with the money I have paid them to watch a lot of losing.
My wife claims that Global Warming has contributed to the rise in temperature and the violent storms which seem to be more prevalent. She might not be wrong. The advent of air conditioning has made it easier to survive the almost unceasing warmth.
I empathize with those who opt to play sports and endure oppressive heat. I get it.
That empathy is tinged with sympathy. Even if they have chosen to willingly step outdoors to play a game, nobody wants to see dehydration, nausea and a variety of heat-related ailments affecting those who share a field, court or sit in the stands.
Whether it’s “The Summertime Blues” or “Summertime, Summertime,” the lyrics of those and other songs resonate. In so many ways.
I could go listen to the greatest hits album “Sounds of Summer” by The Beach Boys. Although that does not include the hit “All Summer Long.” For sure we’re in the “Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer”.
And you might have thought I was going to extol George Lombard, Jr., the rookie sensation at shortstop for the New York Yankees. Nope.
Instead, “Blame It On The Rain.” This year, it’s “Too Hot To Handle.”
