Weekly St. Helena Star Column
Thursday, July 26, 2007
ARE THESE FOR HIS BUNS?
We came here in the 50’s. I was a kid. We were from the East bay, where all sports were played on pavement. I’d never seen real football or baseball cleats-let alone grass. This was Disneyland—all thanks to an old guy named Albert Carpy.
The huge stone facade north of town, what you call C.I.A. (not that one) and many refer to as Christian Brothers, was originally his father’s. There’s a legend that Mr. Carpy’s, Mister Carpy won it in a poker game.
Last week, I mentioned some of the reasons that tackle football was once so important to this town. There was then, and still is a message to its madness.
Parents today, seem to have no clue as to the importance of tackle football to young kids. In fact, probably most parents would think it was harmful—rather than an essential keystone to building character.
Well, the following is true. It happened 11 years ago. And when my 22 year old son arrived last night after three months of hoofing it in Europe, even I had to admit—yes—it worked. My guess is that every tale he told which ended in a minor success, (no matter how fraught with failure it began) about his days as an ignorant, clueless American vagabond in Europe, is traceable back to this day in 1996, when he was 11 years old.
“Are these for his buns?”
Those were her first words I heard from the Goobs when I got to the top of the stairs. I’d rushed home from the office when I got her phone call. Here was the world’s most capable mother--finally at a loss. There was my son, 11 year old J.J.. The genius’ genius. Perplexed. Terrified that he was going to be late for his first “full pad scrimmage”.
Mom was panicked. “Does he wear underpants? “What’s that?” “Are these thigh pads? “ Where do these go?” “How do these cover his buns?”
“They don’t. They’re kidney pads.”
“Oh”. “How come the helmet weighs so much?”
“This looks like a girdle.”
“It is . It protects against hip pointers and protects his tailbone.”
It was more than a Kodak moment. It was the re-enactment of a tribal ritual that has been going on in St. Helena since 1936 when Al (Mr. Carpy), first started coaching the Carpy Gang.
Say what you will, there is no sport like tackle football. And there is no moment like that first moment when Dad is called in to show his kid how to don the gear. It is a right of passage. An initiation.
Could I leave work to show J.J. how to put on the pads? When I arrived home, climbed the stairs of Mrs. Dowdell’s house, once I spotted the gear in a heap on the floor, there wasn’t enough space for the three of us in that bedroom--it was so crowded with memories.
The memories, however, were shaded with sadness, as it appears that today’s parents don’t get Carpy Gang Football. Carpy Gang built this town. If you weren’t working in the stores or fields, you played Carpy Gang. That was the law. And every Armistice Day (or was it Thanksgiving?), the whole town turned out to see the annual Red & White intra-squad game. Carpy Gang was the cornerstone of our civic pride.
Carpy Gang was de rigor because it was there that a male presence outside the family taught young boys the rights of passage. Discipline was enforced. Rules were strict. Instinctively, all parents knew the benefits of young men going off into secret worlds to be tutored by elders in a social setting different from the family. Football builds character. And farmers needed sons with character--boys who were willing to toil in anonymity. Boys who would sweat and work and sacrifice for the greater good. Boys who had been trained by others to go beyond what they thought they could endure. Boys who were trained to be physically tough. Farming and ranching were no day at the beach. Mr. Carpy built good citizens--not prima donnas who tore their helmets off and showed their faces to the crowds, demanding selfish recognition for achievements.
You see, in football, no one actually knows what a down lineman does--or who he is. He toils and bleeds in anonymity. Just like the farm boy who stays up all night lighting smudge pots to fight off frosts to save last year’s crop.
Mr. Carpy taught us to take great pride in our personal accomplishments, even though there was no Nike contract in it for us. We learned to do it because it was right--because it was our job. And all jobs had dignity.
Parents wanted their children to learn those lessons. So they brought their children to Carpy field--and allowed them to be yelled at and pushed to physical limits by elders who were not Politically correct.
I know. Today football players are looked upon as boorish louts. No doubt they’ve earned that reputation. And yes, football is not for every kid. But C’mon folks. This is Carpy Gang.
As Ray Wilsey, our coach at Cal said, “Football is not fun. Rugby is fun. . But if you want to walk away at the end of the day, filled with satisfaction--play football. ”
If ya wanna give your kid some great satisfaction, call Arti at 963-4524. Practice starts August 1. Oh. And if the $100 fee is of any concern--James Warren & Son will pick it up, gladly, for any kid that needs a little help to do something that’ll change his life for ever.
Jeffrey Earl Warren
James Warren & Son
1414 Main St.
St. Helena, Ca.
94574
707-963-2748
Get a sneak peek of the all-new AOL.com.
The huge stone facade north of town, what you call C.I.A. (not that one) and many refer to as Christian Brothers, was originally his father’s. There’s a legend that Mr. Carpy’s, Mister Carpy won it in a poker game.
Last week, I mentioned some of the reasons that tackle football was once so important to this town. There was then, and still is a message to its madness.
Parents today, seem to have no clue as to the importance of tackle football to young kids. In fact, probably most parents would think it was harmful—rather than an essential keystone to building character.
Well, the following is true. It happened 11 years ago. And when my 22 year old son arrived last night after three months of hoofing it in Europe, even I had to admit—yes—it worked. My guess is that every tale he told which ended in a minor success, (no matter how fraught with failure it began) about his days as an ignorant, clueless American vagabond in Europe, is traceable back to this day in 1996, when he was 11 years old.
“Are these for his buns?”
Those were her first words I heard from the Goobs when I got to the top of the stairs. I’d rushed home from the office when I got her phone call. Here was the world’s most capable mother--finally at a loss. There was my son, 11 year old J.J.. The genius’ genius. Perplexed. Terrified that he was going to be late for his first “full pad scrimmage”.
Mom was panicked. “Does he wear underpants? “What’s that?” “Are these thigh pads? “ Where do these go?” “How do these cover his buns?”
“They don’t. They’re kidney pads.”
“Oh”. “How come the helmet weighs so much?”
“This looks like a girdle.”
“It is . It protects against hip pointers and protects his tailbone.”
It was more than a Kodak moment. It was the re-enactment of a tribal ritual that has been going on in St. Helena since 1936 when Al (Mr. Carpy), first started coaching the Carpy Gang.
Say what you will, there is no sport like tackle football. And there is no moment like that first moment when Dad is called in to show his kid how to don the gear. It is a right of passage. An initiation.
Could I leave work to show J.J. how to put on the pads? When I arrived home, climbed the stairs of Mrs. Dowdell’s house, once I spotted the gear in a heap on the floor, there wasn’t enough space for the three of us in that bedroom--it was so crowded with memories.
The memories, however, were shaded with sadness, as it appears that today’s parents don’t get Carpy Gang Football. Carpy Gang built this town. If you weren’t working in the stores or fields, you played Carpy Gang. That was the law. And every Armistice Day (or was it Thanksgiving?), the whole town turned out to see the annual Red & White intra-squad game. Carpy Gang was the cornerstone of our civic pride.
Carpy Gang was de rigor because it was there that a male presence outside the family taught young boys the rights of passage. Discipline was enforced. Rules were strict. Instinctively, all parents knew the benefits of young men going off into secret worlds to be tutored by elders in a social setting different from the family. Football builds character. And farmers needed sons with character--boys who were willing to toil in anonymity. Boys who would sweat and work and sacrifice for the greater good. Boys who had been trained by others to go beyond what they thought they could endure. Boys who were trained to be physically tough. Farming and ranching were no day at the beach. Mr. Carpy built good citizens--not prima donnas who tore their helmets off and showed their faces to the crowds, demanding selfish recognition for achievements.
You see, in football, no one actually knows what a down lineman does--or who he is. He toils and bleeds in anonymity. Just like the farm boy who stays up all night lighting smudge pots to fight off frosts to save last year’s crop.
Mr. Carpy taught us to take great pride in our personal accomplishments, even though there was no Nike contract in it for us. We learned to do it because it was right--because it was our job. And all jobs had dignity.
Parents wanted their children to learn those lessons. So they brought their children to Carpy field--and allowed them to be yelled at and pushed to physical limits by elders who were not Politically correct.
I know. Today football players are looked upon as boorish louts. No doubt they’ve earned that reputation. And yes, football is not for every kid. But C’mon folks. This is Carpy Gang.
As Ray Wilsey, our coach at Cal said, “Football is not fun. Rugby is fun. . But if you want to walk away at the end of the day, filled with satisfaction--play football. ”
If ya wanna give your kid some great satisfaction, call Arti at 963-4524. Practice starts August 1. Oh. And if the $100 fee is of any concern--James Warren & Son will pick it up, gladly, for any kid that needs a little help to do something that’ll change his life for ever.
Jeffrey Earl Warren
James Warren & Son
1414 Main St.
St. Helena, Ca.
94574
707-963-2748
Get a sneak peek of the all-new AOL.com.
