Flags of the gridiron

The year was 1994 and I was in the eighth grade. Awe yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. Crazy acne, a mouth full of braces and a sweaty P.E. uniform that was washed maybe once a semester.

Every so often I fell victim to flagging. Do you remember the term? Or is it from a regional dialect?

The way I remember it is when some jackass pulls down your pants -- gym shorts were most susceptible -- revealing your adolescence to an audience of 13-year-old girls.

I tell you, it was hard growing up middle-class and white.

* * *

On Friday night, I ventured over to St. John to cover opening night of the St. John Men's Flag Football League. You heard me right.

During the week, I even wrote a preview story. It started like this:

Who needs the NFL playoffs when exciting football action is happening right here at home? Just scrap the pads and add some flags.

Surprisingly, the stands were pretty crowded and there was some talent up there. I mean talent as in good-looking girls who watched from the stands. The action on the field -- not so talented.

Remember, it's flag football. Look at this guy getting run over...

First of all, I saw one of the teams at a nearby bar an hour before the game pounding talent juice. They got off to a fast start (their opponent muffed a snap in the end zone resulting in a safety) but as the game wore on and their buzz wore off, they fell apart and eventually lost.

I felt like an idiot interviewing the winning quarterback after the game.

ME: Wait, let me get this straight, all you guys work at the Westin Hotel? Then why is the team called the Storm?

QB: I don't know.

ME: Can you spell your last name for me?

QB: No. Look, my girlfriend is calling me. I gotta go.

ME: Oh yeah? Which one is she? The one in the blue top over there?

QB: No. That's her. (pointing at a different girl)

ME: I was watching her and her friends wrestle around in the stands before I heard all you guys yelling on the field. Apparently, it was because of the winning touchdown but I wasn't watching so could you...

QB (walking away): Sorry bro, I gotta go.

ME (under my breath): You suck at life.

QB: What? (he pulled a 180 and started to walk back toward me)

ME: Nothing.

QB: Yeah, that's what I thought.

He then turned away again and walked closer and closer into his girlfriend's sweet embrace. His girl was not even good looking. I should have fought him. Better yet, I should have flagged him.

With pants near his ankles and his jock strap revealed, I'm sure I could have got one or two shots in before he knew what had happened. But it was no time for a showdown. I had a hot story on my hands and a weekend deadline loomed.

Pure journalistic genius on this one.

Definitely going to save it for my portfolio and if history is kind to me, it may be included in my personal memoirs. We shall see.