When I was a child, my cousin was unable to pronounce my name. Instead of calling me “Sammy,” she called me “Hammy.”
Our mothers thought this was adorable. It probably was adorable. We were adorable. I am adorable.
I played along with my cousin, because playing along seemed to make people happy. I’ve spent a lifetime playing along, because it seems to make people happy. I’m learning to let go of my need to make people happy. There’s trauma down the that road. Anxiety, too, if making people happy gets in the way of honesty. I choose honesty these days. The rest of my days, too.
I honestly didn’t mind being called Hammy. Call me Sammy. Call me Hammy.
***
My hammy is killing me. And now I’m writing about my hamstring.
Football season started last week. College football, sure. And the NFL starts this weekend. More importantly, flag football at the farm started up.
This is my second season playing flag football near Hills Iowa on Sunday mornings. I’m no longer a rookie. I’d like to tell you that what I’ve lost in speed at 46, I’ve made up for in football intelligence. Such an approach might be possible in old man basketball but, so far as I can tell, football is less about being able to outthink the guy across from you.
It still seems like I should be able to beat the guy across from me. When I was 17, I usually beat the guy across from me. And yes, I did scorch my defender last week for a deep touchdown. And, when he played off me, I grabbed a couple of slants and screens that picked up some yards. But it is also true that I lost my assignment on defense too many times, dropped an open ball, and should have gone harder for a couple of passes. Regardless, I’m still walking upright this week, albeit short one hamstring. I count that a victory.
Last week, one of the undergrads on the field slammed into the iron crossbars as he went up for a catch. He held onto the ball, but may have broken a rib. Football is no joke.
My ribs are okay today, but my hammy is howling.
During the first game, I took off on a fly route, and my hamstring tightened. And then it stayed tight. I’ve been limping ever since. At 46, I keep moving, even if my gait is crooked.
And my touchdown catch last week was sweet. And playing football is incredibly fun.
***
So call me Hammy. call me Sammy. Call me Ishmael. I’ll probably play along. Unless what you call me asks me to play into a false reality that causes me (and likely you) harm.
In this age of lies, I want to tell the truth. In this age of anxiety, I want to be at peace. And in this latter part of my forties, I want to play football. Hamstrings be damned.
Samuel Jaye Tanner 