On any playground, I was always about the fourth guy picked. There were always more talented athletes, and those guys went first. But after that, we dogsbodies were allocated. I was a top-drawer enforcer. I never thought I was a particularly dirty player; I simply thrived in contact sports. I loved being able to use my physical "gifts" to jar a more talented athlete off the ball. Toughness is part of sports, or so I told myself, and my efforts were usually within the rules.
Venture outside the rules once in a while, though, and a merely aggressive player gets a "dirty" tag. This was me. And it was a different era. I'd be taking a rest on the sideline of a soccer game, and some uppity opposing player would start shredding our defense, and our coach would glare at me. "Get in there and maim that motherfucker."
One minute (and a legal slide into the ball) later, the player was helped off the field. A different era, indeed. And for my accumulated efforts, I earned a reputation. Where some kids made All-State, I got yellow-carded at the pre-game handshake.
This week, I shall chronicle the worst cheap shots I ever dispensed.