The star at the center—the pigskin—speaks at last.
Hi, this is Jimmy Jockstrap, and I have with me today Pigskin Football. Let’s begin with an off-the-gridiron question. Mr. Football, aside from the game itself, what’s your favorite part of the Super Bowl? The cheerleaders? The TV commercials?
Call me Iggy. Well Jimmy, it’s not the cheerleaders, can’t see ‘em from my position. The bands are nice. It’s inspiring to hear all those tuba players who didn’t make the team. But, mostly, it’s the food. You could say my heart’s in the hotdogs.
It’s a long road through the season to the final matchup. How’s your condition?
I’m in perfect shape for game-day, Jimmy. Tight. Just got the physical, loved having to be rolled over and have a needle inserted in….
Iggy, PLEASE. This is a family show. But let’s talk about your training schedule?
Routine, really, like yours. I get my morning java and sports page. I slide into the old workspace, lying low, taking it easy. But then WHAMMO, a swift kick in the rear and it’s off to work.
The old 14D-pinch-play. Painful.
It’s a living. But the gridlock, the daily back and forth, the scrimmage without an end zone in sight. That’s what chaps my hide.
Still, there’s the payoff—SUPER BOWL!
Relax, Jimmy. It’s no biggie. I’m there each year. But, hey, I’m a pro. I give it my all.
Surprising how matter-of-fact you are, Iggy. Did you ever consider another line of work?
Naw. I’m pumped, and it IS a beautiful game—the family business—and they named it after us. So who’s complaining? My great-great grandfather started in Dallas with nothing but his entrails. Look at us now.
Sounds like an American success story.
I come from a big clan, the pro-sports balls. Some of us have been famous for forever. My coach did our genealogy and mapped out the whole thing. There’s the bowling balls, the black-sheep of the family, don’t ask. They knock about alleys and end up in the gutter. But most of my kin are solid, spherical types. I’ve traced my roots to 1540, Scotland. You can see my oldest living ancestor in Stirling, at the Smith Art Gallery and Museum.
An ART Gallery?
Ain’t that a hoot. There’s more to me that meets the eye, Jimbo. Some folks find beauty in my rugged lines and textured complexion.
The Scots invented golf AND football?
Yeah. Means we can forgive them for the NPGA. Still, I do love those Scottish cuties and their little dimples.
No golf, PLEASE. But I see your tree include baseballs. What about their scandals?
Here we go again. Government investigators came away empty-handed, right? Not one drop of proof of salvia-enhanced hardballs. Case closed.
OK. New topic. Strictly speaking, you’re unlike all your round relatives. Do you consider yourself an oddball?
Because I’m a prolate spheroid? Hey, we’ve come a long way. Yeah I’m different and proud of it. But aren’t we all, one way or another? And what does it matter on game day? I used to hear cracks about how my tennis brethren were gay because the players could swing both ways. Thank God that’s all over with. People today focus on the sport itself and are OK with fuzzy or misshapen balls.
So it’s your position that all balls are created equal? Rumor has it that you’ve capped on your cousins.
Is this 60 minutes? You want your big sound-byte? OK. You’re on. Soccer balls scoot about without bothering to score, there I said it. And basketballs just dribble the day away. Sissy work, really. Let them get buried under three tons of cleated beefcake.
Had to get that on the record, Iggy. But we DO know your job is risky. Ever worry about injuries?
Ha, not in a million yards! Ever heard of me being carried off the field? Taken out of the game? Not like those baseball weenies. They get a scratch or two, and it’s off to the dugout.
But a bad bounce CAN end a career. Did you ever feel the need of a education?
That would be “an education,” Jimmy. But, no. I’m good. You may hear people describe a PLAYER as dumber than a doornail or a box of rocks? But have you ever heard ‘em say dumber than a football? In fact, when I smack someone in the face they’ll tell you it smarts.
You mentioned players, who’s your favorite quarterback?
Man, am I tired of folks fawning over quarterbacks! Where would he be without me? Take me out of the game and see how far he gets. They’re so egotistical! They use you. They move on, and forget. Oh, do they forget.
Did we strike a nerve? Feeling abandoned?
Dropped? Passed around? Yes, I’ve been handed-off with never a backward glance… and it hurts. Players don’t think footballs have feelings because we’re tough. But we’d like a “thank you” now and then, some gratitude, and a close-up or two. But no, we make page one when we’re caught in the middle of a three-way, a fake-out gone wrong. It’s humiliating, so public. And the crowd boos. They BOO YOU, Jimmy! There’s days I sit and wonder what it all means. They don’t pay me enough to be on the receiving end of the post-play blame-game.
Wow. Heavy…. OK. You mentioned pay. What is your compensation?
Damn less than it should be. It’s ridiculous. Owners pay millions for stadiums… players… Gatorade…. And look at the dough they pull in. I’d settle for a slice of the foam finger sales.
Maybe you need better representation.
You think? But I value my free agency. Want to move around. Get to play more often that way.
Why have you finally agreed to be interviewed?
Well, isn’t it time I spilled my guts? People wonder what I’m like on the inside.
What ARE you like on the inside?
More than just a bunch of hot air—I’ve got heart. I’ve changed over the years, had some “work” done, just a nip and a tuck. But don’t call me plastic. Those implants… I just needed some protection. You’ll see me out in snowstorms. And I’ve been abused by no-talent players like the Jets. Yeah, you heard me. The Jets suck.
Is that your worst nightmare, then? To be in a Jets game?
Nightmare? It’s a 50-yard-line seat in Hell.
On the subject of religion—and that’s such a delicate matter these days… Are you a ballistic of faith? Or a secular spheroid?
I try not to mix sports and religion, Jimmy. But I can say that in the center of my being, I believe in myself, which is to say I believe in football.
That’s a little self-absorbed, isn’t it?
Maybe. But think about it. When have I ever let you down?
Letdown? How about that Brown’s game last season. Wasn’t the score a negative number?
That was the crowd attendance, Jimmy. Yes, you’ve seen a crummy game. One that made you hurt. But it was never me. Never football itself. And the really bad games teach us something about ourselves. Resolve. You are determined to find a better team to root for, a better stadium to sit in so to speak.
I can hear your passion. I’m sure your fans would agree.
Thanks. This needed to be said, teams, leagues and franchises may come and go. But we footballs will be here tomorrow, and the day after.
Pretty big talk.
Just laying out the long bomb of truth.
Before we leave, can you share with us your hopes for the future? Retirement? Coaching?
Not retirement but a change of pace, lateral move to she-wee football.
She-wee?
Yeah, pee-wee for girls.
A females-only franchise… that’s your game plan?
Yep. Scented playoffs invitations … Catered huddles…
That puts it over the goal post?
Just some of the extras….
So what’s the clincher?
It’s time to add a woman’s touch to the game, Jimmy.
They moisturize.
Robb has enjoyed writing and performing since he was a child, and many of his earliest performances earned him a special recognition-reserved seating in the principal’s office at Highland Elementary. Since then, in addition to his weekly column on A News Cafe – “Or So it Seems™” – Robb has written news and features for The Bakersfield Californian, appeared on stage as an opening stand-up act in Reno, and his writing has been published in the Funny Times. His short stories have won honorable mention national competition. His screenplay, “One Little Indian,” Was a top-ten finalist in the Writer’s Digest competition. Robb presently lives, writes and teaches in Shasta County.
