“2,27 dive! On two. Ready? Hup! Hup!”
The huddle sprang into action. I stood there, dumb as a field post. Here I was among Americans, on an American military base, playing a uniquely American sport. But this language I did not speak or understand — Football.
Up until last week, I thought a “hunchback” played along with the halfback and fullback. A blitz? A sweet pancake, right? And “down” was merely the direction that you didn’t want your airplane to go unexpectedly.
But the fun factor trumped logic and reason, so I signed up for the “Power Puff” Turkey Bowl, half-thinking (half-hoping) no one would call me. But I got the e-mail, and a few days later, there we were. Twenty women on a field, ready to play. My teammates and coaches impressed me as athletic, hard-hitting and deadly serious about football.
Still, they fielded my questions patiently. “Which direction do I run?” “Who do I tackle?” “What do I do with the ball?” My ignorant brain struggled but little by little, the knowledge seeped in. 

Not all lessons were pleasant. After practice #2, I felt an uncomfortable pain in an area where I didn’t realize there was muscle. Ah-ha! I found my groin (which should be re-named the “groan”)! My shoulders ached from ramming into walls of people at practice. I nibbled my fingernails to nubbins with pre-game nerves, scared-to-death that I’d run the wrong direction at the game and embarrass my teammates. Michael, who volunteered at the practices, gave me two nicknames: “A-Train” and “Stone hands.” The first because I’m fast; the second because I have no hands.
Game day arrived. From the moment it started, the game was a blur. Competition was fierce with all eyes were set firmly on the prize. The tension was palpable. There were too many players on the field, there were interceptions, there were penalties and the crowd in the stands was emotional.
 “Don’t you hurt my mommy!” a small girl snarled at some of the players. “It’s okay, honey,” one of the mommies yelled back. One of the daddies screamed obscenities at the ref; our team took five yards as a penalty. The game continued to whiz by with amazing plays and plenty of drama. The clock was running out. And then, it happened! I finally got a decent tackle! But instead of playing it cool like the real athletes on the team, I went “Braveheart” with exhilaration, shouting and holding the flag aloft like the beating heart of a vanquished enemy. Then reality returned and the game continued.
I don’t care about what anyone says, games ARE about winning and losing. But afterwards, game faces relax back into smiles. Afterwards, it’s about sudsy beverages and subdividing the match into moments, great, gross and groan-worthy. There was team consensus; we didn’t win but we did have a very good time.
Beyond a ripped nail and sore calves, the experience left its mark on me. I know now never to give up yardage. I also learned a fly pattern involves no wings and “offsides” involves no sidelines. And that “football” is a language worth learning, even for a field post like me.