Football: Measured in Merthiolate

It was half time, and the Charlestown Townies trailed the Brighton Knights 14-0. Alongside the Charles River, just a long pass from Harvard Stadium, the Townies sprawled behind a field house, puffing cigarettes and listening to Coach Jack (“The Barber”) Luiselli. “When you hit the bums,” Luiselli growled, “you got to put them down for good. Look, two touchdowns isn’t the end of the world. I don’t believe in all that alma mater stuff, but you guys are from Charlestown and you play football because you love the game. Let’s go.” The Townies shuffled back toward the dusty field. “One more thing,” Luiselli yelled after them. “If you don’t win this one, I’m cuttin’ off your beer.”

Fighting words. Minutes later, the fired-up Townies intercepted a Brighton pass and punched over a touchdown. Another interception, another TD. In the fourth quarter, the Townies scored twice more and coasted to a 24-20 victory—their 28th in their last 34 games. Grimy faces wreathed with toothless smiles, they bussed their wives and girl friends, and drove off to Coach Luiselli’s house for a victory dinner of chow mein, noodles—and beer.

Do It Yourself. The terrors of Boston’s Park League (56 teams in seven divisions), the Townies are an odd breed—amateurs who knock one another around for the pure delight of it. At a time when the most voracious fan can get his kicks by twisting a TV dial, do-it-yourself football seems absurdly out of date. But every Sunday, in dozens of U.S. cities, the sandlots are full of amateurs with a yen to work off frustrations, sweat out hangovers or relive their younger days of gridiron glory. They are plumbers, policemen, office workers, salesmen, doctors, teachers—in their 20s, 30s or even their 40s. A very few hope to catch the eye of a scout and follow in the footsteps of Baltimore Quarterback Johnny Unitas, who strode straight from a sandlot into the pros. But most are onetime high school and college players with no illusions. They play for the earthy satisfaction of throwing a crumpling block or making a bone-crushing tackle.

There are times when the fun is measured in yards of adhesive tape and pints of Merthiolate. “We’re in pretty good shape this year,” says one Midwestern coach. “A couple of broken toes, sprained ankles, plenty of cuts and bruises, a few lost teeth and a few broken ribs. That’s all.” Last season Minneapolis’ South Side All-Stars lost 18 out of 40 men, two to broken legs, four to broken collarbones and twelve to “leg punctures”—caused by football cleats penetrating skin and muscle. But no matter. In nine seasons, Linebacker Walter (“Shorty”) Sullivan of the Charlestown Townies has dislocated a shoulder, torn a knee cartilage and lost most of his visible front teeth. At 30, he still plays. “It relieves my tensions,” he says.

A few teams provide uniforms, medical insurance and the trimmings. But mostly the lumps are for wives to worry about, and the dress is optional. Some teams charge admission to their games; others, like the Townies, pass the hat (last week’s take: $68.80). Hardly anybody makes ends meet. Fields must be rented, referees must be paid, and there are bus and meal costs for out-of-town games. The Kansas City Buffaloes have a peculiar problem: they play most of their games on the road, and under league rules, the home club pockets the gate receipts. As a result, the Buffaloes sport a season’s record of five wins and one loss and a season’s deficit of $19.

A Fan’s Dream. Once in a while, a lucky team lands an angel with bulging pockets—like Stockbroker Bob Nussbaum, who was going to buy a race horse, wound up getting the Chicago Panthers instead. Beside themselves with gratitude, the Panthers elected him coach. When they beat the Elmhurst, Ill., Travelers 41-0 recently, Nussbaum called every play from the bench. “It’s a fan’s dream,” sighs Nussbaum. “Bring on the Green Bay Packers!”

Few amateurs are quite so bold—though most teams swear that they can “hang in there” with any small college. Practice is generally limited to one night a week, often on poor fields with inadequate lighting, and a team’s repertory is likely to be dictated by circumstance as much as by design. The Townies rarely try end sweeps because their practice field—”The Oily” (so named because it is covered with a thin film of oil)—is split by a sewer.

Ragtag it may be. But amateur football has its dedicated following. When Charlestown won Boston’s Senior League championship in 1959, 17,000 rooters were on hand, and one fan got so excited that he drove his Cadillac onto the field and rammed it into the goal posts until they finally fell down. Every evening, outside Jack the Barber’s one-chair barbershop on Bunker Hill Street, scores of youngsters gather to ogle the neighborhood heroes, talking football inside. They wheedle and whine until Star Townie Halfback Nippy Nolan agrees—as he always does—to perform the stunt for which he is famous all over Charlestown. Crouching low taking a deep breath, he leaps up and cracks his head against Jack the Barber’s ceiling just as hard as he can. Says Nippy: “I just love contact, I guess.”