Five Points of Pressure

Often my apartment is the setting for an impromptu game of football. That's actually not true. It's never been one before, and I'm not sure why it ever should be again.

Matty, my personal biographer, was visiting, and he and Mads, my Norwegian companion, were discussing some of the subtle nuances of American football that Mads may not have picked up being a foreigner.

"You're holding the football all wrong."

"Not like this?"

"No, tuck it between your arm and chest... like this. Now hold it tight. You want five points of pressure. Don't let anyone knock it out... like this:"

He swatted at the ball in Mads' arm, causing it to bounce off the floor and knock over a lamp. Ignoring the lamp, he retrieved the ball.

"Watch me. See, now you try and knock it out."

Mads slapped in futility as the ball remained in Matty's control. I was getting nervous. The lamp was an omen of things to come. I've seen how Matty gets around any kind of sporting equipment or anything that might resemble a potential athletic contest. He's put out windows showing off his batting stance, killed a TV when he lost control of a basketball while trying to demonstrate his spin move, and I don't need to mention that celebrity charity soccer game I took him too. Putting Mads in the equation only heightened the effect: it was like drinking while on acid.

"Let me try. I think I got it now. Slap the ball you pussy."

Mixing things up, Matty used his fist like he was serving a volleyball and popped the football out from underneath Mads' hold.

"You just got no skills, Norwegian boy. Here, try and stop me from getting to the kitchen."

Matty picked up the football, and held it as he did earlier, with his five points of pressure. Mads tried to tackle him, and with one head fake Matty was by him and touching the stove with his hand. As he turned to yell "Touchdown", we both heard a crash. Mads had tripped over something in his pursuit of Matty, and fell, landing square in the middle of our coffee table. The table wasn't sturdy enough to hold him, and he destroyed it. Matty walked over to the disaster, flipping the ball in his left hand, while helping Mads up with his right.

"Maybe you ought to go back to seal clubbing, or whatever it is you guys do over in Norway."