Let's get physical

I was given a mini-vacation in honor of Thanksgiving, thus I did not have a chance to weigh in on a topic near and dear to me. Fights. Fights with fans, with other players, with writers. Unruly behavior, in other words.

Thus you were spared one more hand-wringing editorial on the horrors of modern warfare. But I wasn't going to write much about that, anyway. I just wanted to share a few personal experiences -- as usual.

Anyone who has ever played in the semi-pro football circuit knows all about fan behavior. And riots. And all sorts of juicy stuff like that. I hate to say this, but it was part of a dying tradition, and it provided me with many stories to tell. An example:

We're playing the Boonton ( N.J.) Bears in Boonton. It's been a nasty game, a nasty crowd. After the game, after we've beaten the hell out of them, what do I see but the worried little face of Frankie Ferro, our road secretary, which means he's the guy who arranges to pay the bus company

"Get your stuff out of the locker and get on the bus in your uniforms," he's telling us. "We'll dress when we get home. We're getting out of here. I don't like this crowd."

They've started rocking the bus, when we jump on it. A couple of rocks are thrown. Mean, ugly faces, I see through the window, as we begin to move through this surge of humanity. I pick out one big fat guy, lean out the window, and yell, "Hey fatty! Go tell your wife to _______ ______ ____ ____."

He's screaming now, 400 pounds of fury. "Oooh, did you hear dat!" The bus is pulling away, he's running after us on his fat little legs. I lean out and give him the Italian salute, the high-yup-and-over. Guys on the bus are slapping fives and laughing like madmen. Those were our road trips. Wonderful, wonderful memories.

There have been writer-player confrontations of a physical nature. I was never roughed up, but other guys were. The worst thing that ever happened to me was having a bucket of ice water dumped on me in a Jets' locker room. Hot day. It felt good, actually.

I was the beat man for nine years, covering the Jets for the NY Post. I had my ups and downs. One year the Jets drafted a 6-6, 280-pound defensive tackle named Carl Barzilauskas in the first round. He had a terrific rookie season. Next year his play fell off.

I was in the visitors' locker after one game and Bob Kuechenberg and Jim Langer, left guard and center for the Dolphins, respectively, said that they thought big Barzo had been reading his press clippings, that he wasn't doing the things he did as a rookie. I wrote it as a sidebar.