The Turkey Bowl tradition in our family
continued for one more year. I saw in
the newspaper that a group claims to be the longest running turkey bowl because
they have been playing for forty years.
Sorry guys. The
Vaughan/Castiglioni cousins and friends can proudly say we have bested you on
longevity. Our game began back when I
was eleven or twelve years old. That
would give us a running history of 47 or 48 years. Now, I submit in that our game was not played
on Thanksgiving Day itself. We reserved
the Saturday after Thanksgiving at High Noon for our battle royale. When we first began it was just a simple game
of two-below out in the street in front of the house. We had to stop when someone called “car” and
start up again at the cry “game on.” As
we got older and friends started joining us, the street became too small for
something so significant. Besides, we
fancied ourselves quite the athletes, so we wanted a more accurate “feel for
the game.” We tried several other
venues, particularly out at the airport where open spaces used to be
abundant. Finally, though, we settled on
Spoor Field, the Ball High practice facility named after the father of one of
my Mom’s best friends. It was
perfect. No one ever used it over the
holidays, and the goals were already marked.
We didn’t have to establish which bumpers marked the end zone, and our
play calling didn’t have to include things like, “Go to the red Ford and cut
across the middle over to the station wagon.”
And of course there was always the appearance of the Treasure Isle Tour
Train that signaled halftime. As we got
even older, the call of “Tour train. Half
time” became code for the end of the game, since once we stopped it became impossible
to start back up again. On the
thirteenth year of the game one of the guys printed off some t-shirts for
everyone. At some point we started
presenting a trophy to the MVP of the game.
It was named for a guy who always promised to be at the game but never
showed up. That presentation kind of
deteriorated, though. We eventually
started presenting it for all sorts of random reasons. Rick got it when he slid headfirst through a
huge mud puddle. I think it was my
cousin Karen who got it for being a girl.
Josh got it the very first year he was old enough to play. On the first play from scrimmage one of the
big guys accidentally smacked him in the face and he had to leave the game to
get stitches. That warranted the trophy
for Josh and much ridicule for the guy who hit him. The trophy disappeared after a while. I think one of the guys who received it
decided to never come back, so it disappeared with him into oblivion. Ah, memories.
This year we once again returned to our
roots and just played a game in the street.
Boundaries were back of Nathan’s truck to the back of a car parked down
the street. And when another car pulled
up and parked behind that one, our field just got smaller. Jachin played this year and did really
well. A few guys from Seaside even
joined us. Our goal has morphed a bit
from the old days when we used to care about who won. Now it’s just a matter of having a lot of fun
and staying as healthy as possible. Speaking
of which, I’m still sore. I need to
remember to check with my rheumatologist next year about some kind of pre-game
shot to dull the pain. Wait. What’s that?
Not play? Heresy.
Psalms 41:2-3 says, “The Lord will protect him and preserve his life; he will bless him in
the land and not surrender him to the desire of his foes. The Lord will sustain him on his sickbed and
restore him from his bed of illness.”
Father, would you grant some of that
protection to a bunch of tired, sore old dudes trying fruitlessly to regain former
athletic prowess? Amen.
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