Touch Football

President-elect Bill Clinton marked the new year with a touch football game on the beach Saturday. Clinton played on the same side as his daughter, Chelsea, in a game featuring a few grown-ups and lots of kids. Clinton showed his competitive fires at one point in the game when he claimed that the other team lined up and ran a pass play before he was set. "That's ridiculous. I was just standing down there talking," he told the other side.

For me, exasperation is a form of exercise. You should've seen me at the soccer game Saturday, big gasping breaths as if drowning. I recommend it to anyone looking to lose a few pounds while tiptoeing the fine line between sanity and suburbia. "You look like you've lost weight," our friend Barbara said after the game. "I'm mostly wasting away," I explained. "You look good," she said. Thanks. The team performed well, except that in the second quarter I realized that my players seemed unable to run sideways.

At 9 a.m. on Sunday, the dew was still heavy on the picnic tables at Recreation Park. The air was crisp with the beginnings of winter. And no one was present save an occasional jogger and a man walking his dog. Until the arrival of the Gobblers and the Turkeez, that is. Then the pristine quietude gave way to a cantankerous competition. And the morning reverie was shattered by the ritual re-enactment of a grudge match dating back 22 years.

Fall just keeps getting better and better. Granted, I should spend more time attending art walks and viola recitals, maybe take up the oboe. I made myself a little promise the other morning that I'd really give all that a try. Till then, I attended several sporting events last weekend, coached in one of them (AYSO soccer) and played in yet a fourth ? a jangly-nerved touch-football league for the criminally insane. I'm not proud of my sports addiction. But acknowledgment is the first step toward recovery.

Starting today, I'll be taking an indefinite leave of absence from my marriage to work on touch football. I hope to take some time to get my priorities in order. My weekend touch football teammates are like family to me -- dysfunctional, psychotic, forgetful. Besides, athletes like these come along only every few minutes. See, touch football isn't a sport, it's a vice -- or at least a very regrettable habit. It's like buying lottery tickets with the mortgage money or smoking cigars while delivering babies.

Donald B. Logan II, a starting offensive tackle at Iowa Central Community College, died of an apparent heart ailment Saturday after taking a break from a touch football game.

WE ARE A LAND of too many Huck Finns and not enough rivers. So here we are again, out playing touch football on a day that's warm and soft as a good slipper. The porch needs painting. The dog needs a bath. Several marriages could use a little work. We haven't indulged our twitchy kids in, like, three hours. For a while, all that can wait. "Your ball," I say. "You sure?" "Take the ball," I tell the other team, and we start another game.

OUR TOUCH football season ended last week, after the doctor told me I needed some work done on my elbow. "Farmer John surgery," I warn my wife. "I thought it was called Tommy John surgery," Posh says. "In my case, Farmer John," I say. "First, they take a big sausage. . . ." "Dad!" screams the lovely and patient older daughter. "Oops, too much information," chirps Posh. Actually, too much football.

"Football is a kids' game, invented to give a lot of people a lot of fun." --Joe Kapp, former quarterback "What I miss most is the violence." --Dick Butkus, former linebacker The glory of touch football is that it's a game that never evolves--no instant replay, no domed stadiums--just a bunch of domed dads out on a chilly Sunday, trying to keep middle age at bay and stay healthy and desirable for our wives. Because let me tell you a little secret about today's wives: They're lovely and caring.

San Francisco, with Jeff Garcia back at quarterback, finally showed some life, but the Cincinnati Bengals showed more and beat the 49ers, 44-30, Sunday. Jeff Blake tied his career high with four touchdown passes for the Bengals, who put up their highest point total in 10 years, ended a streak of 11 consecutive home losses and got back-to-back wins for the first time since 1997. The Bengals (3-10) had lost their last nine games to the 49ers since 1975, including two Super Bowls in the 1980s.

Starting today, I'll be taking an indefinite leave of absence from my marriage to work on touch football. I hope to take some time to get my priorities in order. My weekend touch football teammates are like family to me -- dysfunctional, psychotic, forgetful. Besides, athletes like these come along only every few minutes. See, touch football isn't a sport, it's a vice -- or at least a very regrettable habit. It's like buying lottery tickets with the mortgage money or smoking cigars while delivering babies.

While you're having turkey and ham, stuffing and gravy or maybe enchiladas today, you will probably have the television on too. And at some point of the day there could be a dollop or two or maybe a roasting pan sized-helping of sports. There are three NFL games (unless you're a Time Warner cable customer, then you only get two, no Giants-Broncos for you from the NFL Network). Plus, plenty of college basketball games. UCLA is playing in a made-for-ESPN tournament in Anaheim at 8 p.m., for example.

OUR TOUCH football season ended last week, after the doctor told me I needed some work done on my elbow. "Farmer John surgery," I warn my wife. "I thought it was called Tommy John surgery," Posh says. "In my case, Farmer John," I say. "First, they take a big sausage. . . ." "Dad!" screams the lovely and patient older daughter. "Oops, too much information," chirps Posh. Actually, too much football.

BACK HOME, there's a cough going 'round and the woodwork needs painting. The gutters should be cleaned before the next rain. Someone is talking about driving 50 miles just to cut down a Christmas tree. "They have this new thing now," I tell my wife. "Tree lots." "But I think it'd be fun," she says. Fun isn't as fun as it used to be. Fortunately, there is football. Touch football. Our national blast time. Our weekly fountain of goof. "You guys ready?"

WE ARE A LAND of too many Huck Finns and not enough rivers. So here we are again, out playing touch football on a day that's warm and soft as a good slipper. The porch needs painting. The dog needs a bath. Several marriages could use a little work. We haven't indulged our twitchy kids in, like, three hours. For a while, all that can wait. "Your ball," I say. "You sure?" "Take the ball," I tell the other team, and we start another game.

It IS THE SWEAT OF MIDDLE- aged men, a mixture of gin and desperation, falling upon this field on the Sunday before Super Bowl. Where it lands, a blade of grass will one day grow. The gods of football, out watering the winter rye. "You know," one dad notes as we line up for the snap, "this may be the one thing I do all week that isn't for someone else." "That's really pathetic." "Know what's pathetic?" "What?" "Those shorts you're wearing." "Thank you." "You're welcome." "Third down!"

These are the little truths that Sunday brings, that despite what everybody says, my buddies and I are getting younger, not older. Thanks to football. Touch football, our fountain of goof. "Come on, we've got a game," I tell someone over the phone. "When?" "Sunday," I say. "I'll be there," he says. They ask about beer and they ask about cleats, the two question marks preceding any pickup football game. I explain that the game is at 10 a.m., so beer should be OK.

So here we are, planning a Super Bowl party, all the guys I play touch football with -- lawyers, screenwriters and other people of dubious means -- trying to find some sucker to turn his house over to us on Super Bowl Sunday after our weekly game. Sober, we're barely tolerable. After a few brews, we'd be like a band of Cossacks, but with fewer social skills. Sweaty. Grass-stained. These clowns would eat all the food we'd bring, then raid the host's refrigerator. Eat the leftover Christmas candy.

So here we are, planning a Super Bowl party, all the guys I play touch football with -- lawyers, screenwriters and other people of dubious means -- trying to find some sucker to turn his house over to us on Super Bowl Sunday after our weekly game. Sober, we're barely tolerable. After a few brews, we'd be like a band of Cossacks, but with fewer social skills. Sweaty. Grass-stained. These clowns would eat all the food we'd bring, then raid the host's refrigerator. Eat the leftover Christmas candy.

"Football is a kids' game, invented to give a lot of people a lot of fun." --Joe Kapp, former quarterback "What I miss most is the violence." --Dick Butkus, former linebacker The glory of touch football is that it's a game that never evolves--no instant replay, no domed stadiums--just a bunch of domed dads out on a chilly Sunday, trying to keep middle age at bay and stay healthy and desirable for our wives. Because let me tell you a little secret about today's wives: They're lovely and caring.