Mechanicville Thanksgiving
MECHANICVILLE THANKSGIVING FOOTBALL
AN APPRECIATION
Dr. Paul Loatman-City Historian
Thanksgiving took on added poignancy this year by falling on the anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy forty-four years ago. More pointedly on a personal note, the weight of the moment was magnified by the fact that our family suffered the ineffable loss of our beloved Lauren on the eve of the holiday. The following morning, I set out on a walk in the woods beyond the athletic fields on Pruyn’s Hill to collect my thoughts and reflect on how our family was going to navigate the difficult days ahead. The gray leaden skies spitting large drops of cold rain corresponded exactly with my mood, deepening both the mud and the gloom so typical of November, the dreariest month of the year.
Lost in my reverie as I trudged up the stairs at the end of Park Avenue, I was quickly drawn out of my ruminations by the sounds of a motley crew of young men wrestling among themselves for possession of a wildly bouncing pigskin. Sidestepping my way along an invisible sideline, I forgot my private grief momentarily while acknowledging the players’ collective greeting, and continued on my way up to the soccer fields beyond their field of play. Crossing midfield, I was drawn to the sounds of another group of “twenty-somethings” scrimmaging in the muck and mire of the Weigel Field below.
Temporarily postponing my walk in the woods, I was now positioned to view the two football competitions simultaneously. Close enough to follow the progress of the games themselves, I was too far removed from the action to be able to identify players individually. Yet, the broader tableau then reminded me that I was witnessing the annual observance of a Mechanicville tradition: “Thanksgiving Day Football.” For maybe the past five, ten, or who knows how many years now, some primal urge had been inducing young men, home for the holidays, to begin their celebrations by spending a few hours rallying ‘round the pigskin. True, they might have seen better days athletically; but anyone doubting their skills would have been impressed by the outbursts of uninhibited glee punctuating the air as they rolled about on the mud-soaked fields. Honoring the great American game’s simple origins, our hometown heroes threw themselves into these contests with abandon, unfazed by their lack of uniforms or protective gear.
Abraham Lincoln solidified the tradition of designating a special day of Thanksgiving in 1863, but every school child knows that the custom was founded by the Pilgrims as early as the 1620s. In recent times, televised football games have been added to the traditional menu of turkey, stuffing, and apple pies as part of the celebration, requiring nothing more of us than passively watching behemoths lumbering after each other on concrete “fields” painted green to create the illusion of grass. These jousts are interrupted repeatedly by commercials, camera shots of scantily-clad “cheerleaders,” and images of frenzied fans vying for one brief second of exposure on national television hoping to earn instant fame.
The contrast between those commercialized spectacles and the more pristine ones I observed being played by earnest young men on Mechanicville’s athletic fields struck me with full-force. My attention had become riveted by the spontaneous sallying of normal-sized humans relishing the pure joy of the moment. Nary a one donned a helmet; shoulder pads were unheard of; and such appurtenances as yard-markers, time-clocks, and a scoreboard were luxuries undreamed of here. Only four of the athletes wore numbered jerseys, and even they were so covered with clumps of grass and mud that deciphering them was impossible. Of cheerleaders, there were none, and these young stalwarts needed no prodding from any bellowing coaches to motivate them. They were going full-tilt, despite the fact that, other than myself and the Lord above, there was not a fan in attendance to root them on.
Shouts of profanity occasionally cut the air, but those few were much tamer than the outbursts of vulgarity coming from professional players that sometimes escape the notice of television censors. These enthusiastic bands of brothers were recalling the “glory days” of their recently-spent youth on Mechanicville’s fields of play. They played hard, but their mutual respect for each other restrained them from resorting to the “unnecessary roughness” that often mars more formal contests. Taunting was taboo, but healthy shouts of triumph and joy arose from players on each side as they reached their respective end-zones. Although I could not anticipate the “official” conclusion of either of these games, apparently an invisible clock had been ticking in the players’ collective head to remind them that the time to put on the feedbag was fast approaching.
The contest on the Weigel Field turned on one riveting play worthy of note at any competitive level. The team defending the north goal started from its own fifteen-yard line following the downing of a mud-caked punt. On the ensuing play, a black-clad youth took a hand-off at scrimmage, side-stepped two would-be tacklers while turning up-field, gained speed as he reached the forty and separated himself from three flagging pursuers. On his right flank, one man had an angle on him and came streaking across the field. Despite the distance separating me from the field, I distinctly saw the ball-carrier’s eyes widen as he simultaneously fixed his gaze on the goal-line while peripherally taking the measure of what was now his last pursuer closing in on him. Heretofore, his long toe-to-heel strides had carried him safely on his way. But nearing the twenty, he leaned forward almost imperceptibly, shortened his steps and rose onto his toes while drawing from some inner reserves that left his last nemesis clutching at thin air, escaping his grasp at the ten and coasting into the end zone, arms raised in triumph.
Whether by prior agreement, the quickening pace of the cold rain, or the sound of distant church bells ringing a noontime Angelus, the muddied minions now trudged to their cars, game ended, their pre-meal taste for symbolic battle having been satisfied. Later that day, you can be sure that they proudly regaled listeners with stories of fierce tackles, long passes, and dazzling runs while recounting the game’s events. Final scores mattered not at all; everyone on the field of play had experienced a taste of victory.
Following their cue, I, too, called it a day and began my journey home. But, upon retracing my steps, I discovered that the other contest was still being waged on the lower field, distinguished by the fact that it pitted an unmatched team of ten against a nine-man opponent. The explanation for the disparity came from one forlorn player on the sideline calling out first downs and penalties. He had earned his exalted position by dislocating a shoulder early in the game. Careful not to interrupt the ongoing fray, I crossed the field of play far beyond the line of scrimmage when a young man suddenly called out: “Hey, Mister-want to join the game?”
Striking my best Heisman pose, I lifted a leg, thrust out a straight-arm, and for a second or two, my mind’s eye flashed back to another gray November day almost fifty years ago when a young fullback, Number 19, bounced off of three would-be tacklers in succession and lunged forward, only to land six inches short of the goal line. But striking such a pose even momentarily had triggered my arthritis and unceremoniously brought me back to reality. Replanting both feet firmly on the ground, I passed up the invitation to make a come-back and continued on my way down the stairs to Park Avenue, homeward bound.
God willing, in future years when they are old enough to understand, I will take my young motherless grandchildren, Bailey, Evie, and Riley along with their father David, on a Thanksgiving morning walk. We will climb up the stairs together at the end of Park Avenue, expectantly looking to find young men continuing to honor this Mechanicville tradition. As we stand above the fields of play, I will explain to them how on one bleak November morning, Papa’s spirits had been lifted, his burden lightened, by the sight of exuberant young men playing a simple game of football.