The Origin of Arena Football

by Amos Knute Warner

My big brother was an avid football fan. During the season he’d faithfully listen to radio broadcasts of his favorite teams. Wouldn’t let me out to play unless I did the same. I think I was five years old.

At half time we’d replay the first half of the game in the living room of our second floor apartment. It was always an away game for me as I was cast as the visiting team. I got the visiting team’s crappy locker room. Also I was never introduced as he was.

Strangely I never won the coin toss. Depending on his mood he’d elect to receive or kick the ball. Further, he always had the choice of goal. Telling me that wind direction played a major role in goal selection. Should have known something was wrong, when he talked about weather influencing the outcome of the game. To make his point he’d open wide all the windows. Since he was eight years older, one could reliably predict the victor. I lost more games than the Washington Generals did to the Harlem Globetrotters.

If his team were down at half time, he’d play with increased vigor. Lest you consider him a bully, which he most certainly was, he played football, and well. Larger players were afraid of his intensity and ferocity. Accordingly why should he spare his little brother?

Kickoffs were particularly dangerous. He liked to tackle me as I caught the ball blithely ignoring fair catches on punt returns. Oh that hurt. But what did I know. Assuming I recovered from the hit, I had four downs to go the length of the room to score a touchdown. Thank God and Jack Benny the floor was carpeted or I would’ve never passed my entrance SATs for first grade.

When his team was ahead, he’d let me advance the ball to the goal between the couch and large wall radiator. After a couple of out of bound hits on the radiator side, I learned to favor the sideline nearest the couch. My brother’s scouting reports unfortunately noted the same trend.

He was unduly proud of his defense against the run. Boasting wildly about yielding the fewest yards per carry in the LRFL (Living Room Football League). I wasn’t impressed because I didn’t know what he was talking about. My insouciance worked against me egging him on to additional atrocities.

Rarely. Ever so rarely, I’d manage to cross the goal line. You can’t imagine my exhilaration having scored a touchdown against my big brother. But you didn’t know him. After I’d apparently scored, he’d drag me back on the other side of the goal line. Informing me that since I’d failed to maintain my position in the end zone, no touchdown was scored

Today the rule requires breaking the plane of the goal line with the ball under control to score. But that rule wasn’t initiated for another sixty years. Moreover, when I fell, the ground could cause a fumble unlike today’s wussy rule. The scramble for the ball and pileups were unimaginable.

It was just as bad on defense. I was instructed the only way to tackle was below the knees. Right in the nose. He insisted on this, although he wasn’t above clothes lining me on the radiator sideline. At my size I couldn’t get two arms around both his legs as I barely managed to grab one. He’d deliberately and slowly drag me the length of the room laughing hysterically as I tenaciously and agonizingly hung on like a fox terrier biting a pants leg. Sometimes he’d let me think I’d stopped him from scoring on fourth down.

You guessed it. He’d characteristically invoke a penalty giving him another down. Offside. Encroachment. Lining up in the neutral zone. Unopposed access to the quarterback. He’d conveniently play all positions covering all eventualities. Contact prior to the snap of the ball. Illegal hands to the face. Heck! I couldn’t even touch his shoulder.

Sometimes he’d call illegal motion. False start. Grounding the ball. Who was I going to throw to? Ineligible player down field. Illegal formation. For crying out loud which I did a lot of, I was the formation! These were all offensive penalties! How was I to know the difference?

I began to be suspicious when he called too many men on the field and failure to report to the referee. Hey! I was the only player on my team and for that matter never saw a referee in the room. Even at the tender age of five I knew something was wrong with these calls. If I complained, he’d blow a whistle in my face, flagging me for unsportsman like conduct. He’d wait until the second half of the radio game began before he’d throw me out of the game. Otherwise he’d have no opponent.

In retrospect I’m surprised he didn’t call facemask only we didn’t have them then. We were lucky to have helmets. When we did, he’d wear the only one available.

Telling me that mom and dad considered him special and didn’t want him to suffer any concussions. Concussions? Sociologists believe that the discontent and malaise of the sixties and seventies stemmed from too many people playing football without helmets.

After all the whistles were blown. I never got a whistle. Penalties levied and sorted out. He’d drag me over for the belated score. Standing over me he’d yell all kinds of nasty things and then posture and strut around the room. Again anticipating today’s unnecessary and tiresome celebrations in the end zone.

If all this wasn’t bad enough, he’d invite two cronies to play. I won’t say they were cretins, but the Tres Amigos were models for the Ritz Brothers and Marx Brothers. Picture if you will, one small five-year-old facing three 13 year olds, lined up on the surrogate forty yard line of the living room. There clearly wasn’t any space to squeeze through these stalwarts. Once again kickoffs and punt returns were disastrous. After these collisions I vowed, I’d never play football again, and if I was foolish enough to do so, never agree to return kick offs and punt returns. I might’ve been a serious scholar, if I hadn’t received those early hits.

Unnecessary roughing penalties were never called. Sometimes all three were guilty of some violation on the same play. If I got hurt and cried, my brother wouldn’t allow a referee’s timeout. He was more concerned that I’d be placed on the disabled injury list for next week’s game. Which happened more than once I can tell you. When I complained, I was shouted down as a wimpy whiner. Their joy had no bounds when they exercised their specialty on me - the old whip saw.

Fourth and goal. Tucking the ball under my arm, which barely fit, I resolutely charged. My brother would grab one arm and drag me over the goal line while his mutant buddies would grab my legs and pull me back. Back-and-forth. Back-and-forth with me as the medium for this tug of war. Sometimes for additional amusement they’d roll me over the ball anticipating Pilates exercises by many years. This would continue for some time until they collapsed with laughter, got tired, or I up chucked. Then they quickly lost interest. I had to clean it up of course.

Is it any wonder I was always grateful when football season ended without incurring any per … perman … permanent damage. When my parents were finally apprised of the LRFL, my brother glibly informed them it was for my own good preparing me for football or failing that, life. Generations of British historians proudly state that the success of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces were forged on the playing fields of Eton. It’s equally clear that the indignities and humiliations experienced in my life were forged on the floor of our living room, the precursor of arena football.