Mind you: There is only one “football” here in Spain (and pretty much every other country in the world whose name doesn’t start with “U” and end with “nited States of America.” Fútbol. The game we call “soccer.” Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
Anyway, the point is that this country has virtually no idea that another game with the same name as theirs exists. Yes, they have heard of “fútbol norteamericano,” or “fútbol americano,” but in the same way that you may have heard of cricket, or jai-alai, or curling, or polo. They know that in America we have a sport that’s something like rugby, but they have a better idea of how to play Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony than how to play some good ole’ pigskin.
And can you blame them? What the heck is a down, or an interception, or pass interference, or roughing the kicker, or a safety, or a forward lateral, if you’ve never encountered anything similar? It’s like attending the first day of auto-mechanic school when you’ve never seen a car.
It had been an idea of mine to introduce our wonderful American game to the students and teachers at my Spanish school, but the lack of a proper football posed a major problem. Today, during the first hour of our two-hour lunch break — and yes, you read that correctly, we take two-hour lunch breaks and have another 30-minute ‘pause’ an hour earlier … definitely not in Kansas anymore — the subject of American football somehow came up, and within minutes I was on YouTube showing highlights of last year’s Packers-Vikings game to Juanjo, one of our male teachers. (That was the game when Favre returned to Lambeau field, if you recall.)
After explaining the more basic rules — four downs, ten yards for a first down, pass and running plays, turnovers, touchdowns, field goals, yada yada yada — I told Jaunjo (who I call “J.J.”) that I’d bring an American football back to Spain with me after my impending short visit home in December. He said that was cool and then headed off for the lunchroom.
But in a moment, he popped his head back in the door and held up, lo and behold, a football. Like, the thing that looks like this, with laces and brown paint and all. It was a plastic, toy-store kind of ball, far from “Officially Licensed National Football League” quality, but a football nonetheless — and properly filled with air!
Justin — the other American language and culture assistant at my school — and I saw that ball, and we looked at each other as if someone had plopped an authentic Thanksgiving Day feast in front of us. (Coincidentally, we will teach the students about Turkey Day and celebrate it in school this year. Actually, I think that’s how the subject of football originally surfaced; Justin and I agreed it was a necessity that the kids watch or learn about American football because it’s such an integral part of the holiday.)
“Dude,” Justin said to me in the most serious of tones of his strong Bostonian accent, “let’s go throw right $&*#!@+ now.”
We went out to throw in the middle of the fútbol playground. Well, one of the fútbol playgrounds. I’m not joking when I say that every single class in our school, from pre-school through sixth grade, has at least one soccer ball. Every single class. You can take away the pencils, the books, the desks, the chalkboards, even the chairs, but you will never take the soccer balls from the school without first fighting the student body, faculty, kitchen staff and cleaning crew to the death. I couldn’t be more serious about this.
But, as soon as that American football surfaced on the playground, it seemed as if someone had held up a cell phone in a Charlie Chaplin film from 1928. The second that football appeared, everything stopped. Justin and I started throwing to each other, all eyes trying to figure out this alien game we were playing. I ran a post pattern, he ran a slant. I faked a hand-off to him, then he ran a pump-and-go.
Then the kids wanted in. At first, only a handful congregated around us, asking to catch the ball — and it wasn’t pretty. I’ve seen brick walls with better hands than they did during their first few attempts. Justin entered the lunchroom, and I was left with Los Gigantes Pequeños (“The Little Giants“) in front of me.
And guess what? I’ll be damned if those kids didn’t pick it up like skipping rocks or playing tag. It may take years for them to learn English, but they could form a pretty decent Pee Wee team in a matter of weeks if they wanted. Because they’re so good at soccer — I’m bigger and stronger, but many of them already have better ball control than me, and I used to play a little — they can move. Their catching and throwing require some work, since they’ve never played hand-oriented sports, but some of them displayed real talent. This one girl, Carmen, couldn’t catch the ball if you put it on a tee, but once she picked it up, she looked like Barry Sanders … only, you know, in a Hello Kitty t-shirt.
Less than 10 minutes into what I can only assume was the first unofficial football practice in C.E.I.P. Santa Quiteria history, at least 15-20 kids were calling for the ball simultaneously. We executed a couple successful place kicks, had some hand-offs and laterals, and a few Hail Mary pass completions.
Then we scrimmaged. Was it anything close to any semblance of an organized game? Come on — Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was the National Football League.
But they got the gist of it alright: Guys vs. girls (of course I played on the girls team … because I like winning), and the objective was to get the ball from the other team however possible and keep it as long as possible. We all returned from our two-hour lunch break — and yes, you read that correctly — sweaty as old men in a full-power sauna, smiling from ear-to-ear-to-ear-to-ear, and physically drained.
Touchdown, Spain!
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