The Mudville Football Gang

I recently watched a movie trailer that reminded me about the days gone by, many years ago.

I was reminded of the days when the kids in the neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods would wait for the hard rains and head for 2nd Ward Park, in Passaic, NJ to play their mud football games.

We dearly loved sports and the addition of the mud gave us a comical outlet for some of our pent-up energy; although our moms were not at all amused.

I remember the guys that gathered each time without even any predetermined plans. It just happened.

There was “Stoni”, Artie, Harry “Q”, Baldanza, Howie, Van Handle and many others. We were like puppies with a new toy and each time was more exciting than the last.

There was something special about those days something about the camaraderie and something about getting tackled and sliding on your belly another twenty feet as your pockets filled with mud. As you tried to get up from the slimy mess there was a great sucking sound that you heard as the mud tried to swallow you up and take you back down. The splat as one of the players hit the ground was something that made us laugh and want more.

I can’t remember who won because that didn’t matter. What I do remember is looking at each other and laughing at our mud-covered bodies. Looking at Stoni and telling him he and Artie now looked like brothers.

The one-block walk home was slow, sticky, and wet. It got even longer when I realized I was wearing the new pair of dungarees, (that’s NJ for jeans), that my mom had just bought for me. I would spend the next few hours sitting on the front porch as the mud -aked and dried because my mom would not let me in the house. I would eventually take off my clothes on the porch and run upstairs to jump in the tub and get in more trouble when the mud clogged the drain and the brown water drained out slowly leaving a beach behind.

The next morning I can recall running down the steps and heading out the door only to be greeted by my mud-caked dungarees that were now stiff and standing at attention. My resolution? Take the garden hose and wet them down until it looked like all the mud was off and then sneak them into the laundry when my mom wasn’t looking. Bad Idea…

I would be found out when the water in the old ringer washing machine turned a strange beige color and my mom had to pull the clothes out, clean the washer and start the laundry all over without my contribution.

My mom passed on about a year after that. Although she was initially angry at the situation she had a sense of humor. After things calmed down she laughed about the situation. She would tell the story with a smile on her face and always check the washing machine for muddy jeans. It was now baseball season so there were no muddy jeans, just stickball games in the schoolyard and missing broom handles from my mom's new brooms.

These are memories of a full and exciting childhood.

Sometimes when it rains hard, I yearn for those days when being tackled meant you would slip and slide for 20 feet before you stopped. The mud in your mouth, your hair, and behind your ears. My mom always checked thereafter my bath.

I often wonder why I remember some things and not others, but I do know that this was a good memory of the “Mudville” football gang.

Oh, those were the days!!!!