Organized football sucks!!!
Well, that is of course
if you're not a lazy fat fuck
who bruises like a peach!
Then it's great.
Then it's great.
Here's a tale of woe starring yours truly...
tommy mondello... aka...
lazy fat fuck!
Blood Sweat and Fears
(( My Football Daze ))
(( My Football Daze ))
DE-FENSE
(stomp, stomp)
DE-FENSE
(stomp, stomp)
DE-FENSE
We’ve all chanted those words
at some time in our lives, right?
Maybe at the last superbowl party, local high school game, or maybe even at a
professional football game.
Isn’t it just a great release to scream at the top of your lungs like that? It’s you and everyone else in the stadium against that other team.
There’s such strength in numbers isn't there? Being included in that number
makes you feel invincible.
Well, from up here in the bleachers anyway!
I mean, seating in the bleachers is a relatively safe thing to do. What’s the worst thing that could happen to you up there? Maybe a little beer gets spilled on your sneakers. Or some dude hits on your chick. Very normal and reasonable occurrences right?
Well, lemme tell ya man, I’ve been on the other side of the fence. That’s right, I strapped on a jock, handed in my fifty bucks, and stepped outta the crowd and onto the gridiron.
And, holy shit,
did I get the ever living crap beat outta me!
Remember that story a few entries back...
(You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth)... about street football on Simonson Ave? That’s right, pole-lengths and button hooks. It was a nice game of two-on-two touch football.
Well, this was nothing like that!
Not one fucking bit was it like that.
I must’ve been outta my fuckin' mind goin’ out onto that field. Gimmie the bleachers, a little beer on my sneakers, and an asshole hitting on my chick any day of the year instead
of being out there on that field.
And do me a favor, will ya? The next time you hear someone in the crowd berating a player, any player, from the quarterback to the kicker, just smack him right in the head for me okay. Because I’ve come face to face with the beast, and believe me, it ain’t no game out there muthafucka, no game at all!
at some time in our lives, right?
Maybe at the last superbowl party, local high school game, or maybe even at a
professional football game.
Isn’t it just a great release to scream at the top of your lungs like that? It’s you and everyone else in the stadium against that other team.
There’s such strength in numbers isn't there? Being included in that number
makes you feel invincible.
Well, from up here in the bleachers anyway!
I mean, seating in the bleachers is a relatively safe thing to do. What’s the worst thing that could happen to you up there? Maybe a little beer gets spilled on your sneakers. Or some dude hits on your chick. Very normal and reasonable occurrences right?
Well, lemme tell ya man, I’ve been on the other side of the fence. That’s right, I strapped on a jock, handed in my fifty bucks, and stepped outta the crowd and onto the gridiron.
And, holy shit,
did I get the ever living crap beat outta me!
Remember that story a few entries back...
(You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth)... about street football on Simonson Ave? That’s right, pole-lengths and button hooks. It was a nice game of two-on-two touch football.
Well, this was nothing like that!
Not one fucking bit was it like that.
I must’ve been outta my fuckin' mind goin’ out onto that field. Gimmie the bleachers, a little beer on my sneakers, and an asshole hitting on my chick any day of the year instead
of being out there on that field.
And do me a favor, will ya? The next time you hear someone in the crowd berating a player, any player, from the quarterback to the kicker, just smack him right in the head for me okay. Because I’ve come face to face with the beast, and believe me, it ain’t no game out there muthafucka, no game at all!
My organized football career
lasted all of 4 hours.
You heard right a-holes.
Not four years, four months,
or even four days.
It lasted 4 fucking hours!
And you know what?
That was even too long!
You see, I had some friends playing in the local league at the time. So it sounded like a great idea to join and maybe get on the same team as them. It would be just like
when we played neighborhood ball.
(I always had to have a plan, didn’t I?)
Well I dragged my dad down to the field, and got signed up. They weighed me, assigned me to a team, and fifty bucks later, I, was a football player. And that’s all it took. So I thought.
I remember my parents drove me to the field for my very first, and what turned out to be,
last practice.
“We’ll be back later to pick you up. Have fun!”
“Okay Ma, see ya later!”
I was a bit late in signing up, and by this point the team had already been practicing together for a couple of weeks. So it was very intimidating as I walked up to the guys. In fact, the closer I got to them, the more I wanted to say...
“We’re not in Kansas anymore Toto are we?”
I thought to myself……
“What a Wonderful World”
No no no, only kidding.
(Just seeing if you were payin’ attention!
I love that song dont'choo guys??)
Really, I thought to myself,
“Why the fuck are these guys so big?”
I was supposed to be the big guy!
Well, it turned out, that the league didn’t go by age like I had thought. Those bastards created different divisions by weight.
Uut…ooh!
Houston, we have a problem!
I was just a couple pounds over the limit
for my age group.
(A couple? Oh be quiet you skinny fucks... LoL)
So I got bumped up to the next level.
The older guys!
I'm guessing I was about 12 years old at this time. Still into my "husky" years LoL
I was well outta my element to say the least. Half of the guys already had full beards for goodness sake, and it looked like the other half
just got outta fuckin' prison.
I wasn’t gonna be the big fish in the little pond as I had anticipated, but rather that piece of leg meat that Charlie left hanging on the three foot fence from the "Kiss Your Mother" entry.
That’s right.
Fucking leg meat!
Me, meat, raw, in a cage full of hungry lions!
Leg meat... oh crap.
At this point I still hadn’t picked up my equipment from the field house manager. You know, shoulder pads, helmet, padded pants, and such. The only thing I had on was
my jock strap and cup.
My body might get pounded black & blue,
but my balls would be cradled
in a pool of warm sweat.
(Ugggth, petty disgusting!)
I walked up to the coach. He handed me this gigantic book of about fifty plays or so, and said,
“You’re the new guy, right?
Here, take this and study the first five plays.
I’ll see you in a few minutes!”
A few minutes!
What the fuck is that?
It takes me a few minutes just to build up a good fart for crap sake. How the hell was I suppose to learn five fuckin’ plays?
Well I opened the book, saw a bunch of X’s and O’s, and tried to make something outta them. Believe me, this was way different from street football being in the huddle with Billy and then going long for the bomb. WAY different!
I walked up to the coach again, and he goes “Okay, get in there and play left tackle
on the offensive line.”
I thought…
“Offensive line?
Doesn’t he know who I am?
He’s gonna waste my talents
on the fucking line?”
Could you believe the arrogance,
and naivete on my part!
An overweight twelve-year-old Bonsai Tree, attempting to take root, smack dab in the middle of the fucking Redwood Forest. But I knew better than the coach, right? Man, just smack me
in the fuckin' head, will ya!
So, there I was.
No helmet, no shoulder pads,
and absolutely no fucking clue!
Just fear and warm sweaty balls.
Everyone else was fully padded, taped up, chewing on mouthpieces that were dripping with drool foaming down the sides of their face.
Uniforms soiled with mud, blood, and seagull shit from a flock that had made a pit stop
along the way.
Man, I’m tellin’ ya, it looked like one of the battlefield scenes from the Braveheart movie. With me, Mel Gibson-Mondello,
standing right in the middle
of the whole fucking mess!
FREEEEEE-DOMMMM!!!
Blue 48
Blue48
hut hut!
The ball was snapped to the quarterback, and all hell broke loose. People were running in every direction. I was getting hit left and right. Mud and drool were slappin’ me in the face.
At this point, I didn’t even know if I was supposed to be an X, or a fuckin O. The only thing I did know was that it didn’t hurt this bad
from up in the damn bleachers!
Play after drooling play went on for a nightmarish two hours. Then, finally, the whistle blew and like Pavlov's Dogs, everyone
came to a stop and faced the coach.
Yes!
I made it through my first practice.
Or did I?
Fuck no I didn’t!
“Okay, lineup for calisthenics!”
“WHAT!
Did I hear him right?
Did he just say cali-fuckin-sthenics?
Is this man insane?
Look at me.
Do I look like I’m ready to do
fucking jumping jacks?”
At this point I didn’t even know if the shit that was jammed down my pants was from the seagulls or from my own ass!
Jumping jacks, push ups,
leg lifts, and so on. My body was in every possible position known to man. I was standing up, sitting down, on my back. I was waiting for the coach to say...
“Okay, doggie style!
Everyone fuck the guy in front of you
in the ass and pass it down!”
Hey, I wouldn’t put it past these sadistic nut jobs.But even if I had to do that, do you honestly think that my dick would be dumb enough to poke its delicate head out from behind my cup with all of this bullshit goin’ on?
Please!
I may be a jackass,
but don’t insult my penis like that.
The exercising continued for about an hour. Then once again the dreaded whistle blew.
“Oh no, what now?”
“OKAY, EVERYONE GIMME TEN LAPS
AROUND THE PARK!”
“OH SHIT!
Did he just say ten fucking laps?”
That’s exactly what that asshole said.
I might as well run straight to the funeral parlor and save the ambulance the trip, because there was no way that my body would hold up to this.
I could hardly stand, let alone run.
I was like a hot Gumby!
You remember Gumby dont'cha?
That green rubber guy
and his little red pal Pokey.
Well, just imagine if you left little green rubber Gumby out in the hot sun too long.
Then see how well that bitch stands up.
Well, that was me.
Hot, gooey, green rubber Tommy!
But of course I let my stupid pride take over and get the best of me and I found myself jogging around the park with the rest
of those mindless robots.
And this park was no walk in the park either. This place was gigantic. Willowbrook Park was its name. And the portion that Mussolini had us running on held four softball fields, and a football/soccer field in the middle.
This guy was out of his fucking
football-shaped head.
By this time, my parents had returned to pick me up, and as I was coming around for the home stretch of the tenth lap, my mom thought I was going to drop dead right there on the spot.
Well, I didn’t!
It may have looked as though I did, but I made it baby. That muthafucka was not gonna break me on my first day.
Practice finally ended.
We all said our goodbyes, and I poured myself into the back seat of the car. My mother had that nervous look about her as she said
“So, aaah, did you have fun?”
“Yeah”
“He aah, seems like a nice coach?”
“Yeah. He said that I need a mouth piece.”
So, no sooner said than done.
We were on our way to the store to buy a mouthpiece that would never be used.
I really just wanted to cry and have my mommy feed me warm strained peas, and coddle me at this point. (Oh shut up... LoL)
But I held it together. And we headed for Major’s department store for my piece.
You guys remember Major's right?
Anyway, when I recently talked to my mom about this horror, she said that I took forever in the store. I can’t really remember why though. Maybe I caught a quick nap while in sporting goods or something. Those sleeping bag displays always did look inviting.
Well, I eventually made it back to the car and we headed for home. And it was at this point that the flames of my gridiron-hero dreams were doused for all time as I told my parents that I didn’t wanna play football anymore. That this crap was not for me! Get me back to Billy
and the fuckin' bomb muthafucka!!!
A look of pure relief came over my mom’s face. All I wanted to do was to put on my pj’s and sleep for a week. I didn’t even wanna hear
the word football.
A couple days later my dad went back to the field to get his fifty bucks back. And this put a closure on the whole nightmare for us all.
Organized football?
Fuck you!
Gimmie two-on-two street ball
any day of the week!
Or better yet,
a ticket up there in the fuckin’ bleachers!
Section 410, row 4, seats 15 & 16.
Over here dude,
it's time to spill some beer
and hit on my chick!
Aaaahh... home sweet home.
Now... that's the ONLY way football should ever be experienced. Especially for me anyways. Because well, believe it or not, I bruise like a peach. Like a muthafucking peach!
(and again... oh shut up! LoL)
I can’t deal with that organized punishment.
“Hey hotdog, over here!”
I could hardly stand, let alone run.
I was like a hot Gumby!
You remember Gumby dont'cha?
That green rubber guy
and his little red pal Pokey.
Well, just imagine if you left little green rubber Gumby out in the hot sun too long.
Then see how well that bitch stands up.
Well, that was me.
Hot, gooey, green rubber Tommy!
But of course I let my stupid pride take over and get the best of me and I found myself jogging around the park with the rest
of those mindless robots.
And this park was no walk in the park either. This place was gigantic. Willowbrook Park was its name. And the portion that Mussolini had us running on held four softball fields, and a football/soccer field in the middle.
This guy was out of his fucking
football-shaped head.
By this time, my parents had returned to pick me up, and as I was coming around for the home stretch of the tenth lap, my mom thought I was going to drop dead right there on the spot.
Well, I didn’t!
It may have looked as though I did, but I made it baby. That muthafucka was not gonna break me on my first day.
Practice finally ended.
We all said our goodbyes, and I poured myself into the back seat of the car. My mother had that nervous look about her as she said
“So, aaah, did you have fun?”
“Yeah”
“He aah, seems like a nice coach?”
“Yeah. He said that I need a mouth piece.”
So, no sooner said than done.
We were on our way to the store to buy a mouthpiece that would never be used.
I really just wanted to cry and have my mommy feed me warm strained peas, and coddle me at this point. (Oh shut up... LoL)
But I held it together. And we headed for Major’s department store for my piece.
You guys remember Major's right?
Anyway, when I recently talked to my mom about this horror, she said that I took forever in the store. I can’t really remember why though. Maybe I caught a quick nap while in sporting goods or something. Those sleeping bag displays always did look inviting.
Well, I eventually made it back to the car and we headed for home. And it was at this point that the flames of my gridiron-hero dreams were doused for all time as I told my parents that I didn’t wanna play football anymore. That this crap was not for me! Get me back to Billy
and the fuckin' bomb muthafucka!!!
A look of pure relief came over my mom’s face. All I wanted to do was to put on my pj’s and sleep for a week. I didn’t even wanna hear
the word football.
A couple days later my dad went back to the field to get his fifty bucks back. And this put a closure on the whole nightmare for us all.
Organized football?
Fuck you!
Gimmie two-on-two street ball
any day of the week!
Or better yet,
a ticket up there in the fuckin’ bleachers!
Section 410, row 4, seats 15 & 16.
Over here dude,
it's time to spill some beer
and hit on my chick!
Aaaahh... home sweet home.
Now... that's the ONLY way football should ever be experienced. Especially for me anyways. Because well, believe it or not, I bruise like a peach. Like a muthafucking peach!
(and again... oh shut up! LoL)
I can’t deal with that organized punishment.
“Hey hotdog, over here!”
