As It Was

Donald startled us by diving in and shaking spray from his blond locks. We were ready to follow him and dive into the water, but a large figure was ambling around the perimeter of the water. The shorts and Lions sweatshirt fairly bulged out of the man’s frame. He was wearing flip flops and carried a notebook. Gil Mains. I recognized his face from photographs in the Detroit News sports pages. Gil “the Wild Horse” Mains, the right tackle of the Lions’ offensive line. Donald strode out of the lake and stood next to us. I waved to the approaching moose of a man and shouted, “Hello. You’re Gil Mains.” He nodded and said, “Who are you guys? Not the Cranbrook football team, that’s for sure.” I guess it was pretty obvious, too scrawny, too tan, too energetic to have spent a hot afternoon as a pampered Cranbrook student being toughened up, running 40-yard sprints, tackling football dummies, and pushing half-ton football sleds across a football field. “We’re not the swim team either. We’re here for a picnic with one of the teachers. We’re lifeguards from the country club over on Orchard Lake,” I said. “Not much to guard here,” he said, pointing his notebook over the shallow lake. “Hey,” I said, looking over my shoulder to Donald and the guards, then back at Gil Mains. “I wonder if you could tell us what you do when a player comes at you low and tries to chop block you.” "Why don’t you try he said. Oh, no, now what? OK. Here was my mouth getting me in trouble again. I heard a few guffaws from the guards. Too late. I backed up a couple of steps and went right at him, low, suddenly finding myself staggering back and falling on the curbing beside the lake, victim of Gil Mains’ left forearm thrust up under my jaw in an uppercut. Yes, I was in one piece. Laughter from my cheering team bathers. Naïve to the point of self-destruction, I picked myself up, looked up at the man towering over me, muttered, “Thanks,” and walked back to my cheering section. How could I save face? “OK,” I said, looking back at the smiling linesman. “What would you do if I…” and I turned back to face the giant, “…if I came at you high like this?” and I folded my arms across my chest and ran at him. A thunderous blow across my shoulders landed me on the curbing of the lake, almost exactly where a spread-eagle chalk drawing of my previous collapse would have been. More laughter from the other guards. Gil Mains looked down, not concerned about my well-being, looking down at what I thought I saw was both his delight in combat and this upstart’s moxie. OK, he’s proud of me. OK, so I’m not done yet. OK. I went to my knees, slowly, stood and shook myself, rubbing a knob rising on my right elbow. I started walking back to the guards, some of whom were clapping, looked over my left shoulder at the smiling pro linesman, and said, “OK, good.” I turned to face him. Now what, I asked myself. Thank him? On no! I heard myself saying, “But what if I came at you right at your middle?” and I lowered myself into a semi crouch and charged at his midsection. It seemed like a long run at the big man. Suddenly, I wasn’t running, but moving rapidly, flying through the air. Next, I felt myself struggling underwater, kicking to get to the surface. Gil Mains had simply set his notebook down on the curbing of the lake, plucked me up with both his paws as I hurtled into his paunch, and heaved me over his head fifteen feet into the lake. Cheers and applause from the guards. I was a hero. Victim incited humility. Gil Mains waved and walked on around the lake. It wasn’t until I moved to New York and switched devotion from the Detroit Lions football team to the New York Giants players that I realized that I had learned something important in my challenging of, well, not exactly challenging, Gil Mains, but learned something about myself in testing myself. What had I learned? Was violence part of my nature? Was playing the fool? Had I learned how much punishment I could endure? Whatever the negative lesson, whatever pride gained in surviving physical challenge, whatever satisfaction in playing the fool, I had learned that confrontation would gain me nothing.