Putting his foot on a game he loves

Peyton Manning was having an uncharacteristically bad day. Brett Favre was on a roll against his old team at Green Bay.

And I had my eyes focused on the piano bench.

My first football experience came in the living room.

I was probably 4 or 5 when the games started. My big brother, Steve, was 11 or 12.

And we kept it up until I was about 7 or 8, when he would have been 14 or 15.

By that time, we could have done significant damage, so it's no wonder my parents called a stop to it.

The game was a variation of football that probably only exists in the world of big brothers and little brothers.

The "ball" was a pair of rolled up sox.

One goal line was the woodwork that divided the living room from the family room. The other goal line was the piano bench.

Think of it as quasi-structured rough-housing, and you'll get the idea. It was a great way for a big brother to play with a little brother.

Only one player lined up on each side of the line of scrimmage.

We "hiked" it to ourselves but sometimes went through counts that would put Peyton to shame.

There were fumbles. There were tackles. There were rulings on forward progress. Downs were counted faithfully, though punts were out of the question. Steve was even able to pass the "ball" to himself, tossing it up with his right hand and catching it with his left while I ineffectually tried to intercept.

And like all good silliness - like all play - it made sense in its own way.

The wonder is that we never knocked over a table or broke a lamp and that my mother seldom came in to tell us to cut it out. We played.

In doing so, on a field of carpet with a pair of rolled socks tucked under my arm, I actually learned the basics of the structure of the game.

It helped, of course, to have a good teacher.

Steve would go on to play on Portland High School's last undefeated football team and on the last undefeated football team at Earlham College, where he was selected as a small college All-American.

My own career was limited to flag football in gym class, but I've always loved the game.

And this time of year, I attribute much of that affection to those sock football games in the living room that threatened to break vases and knock over loveseats and up-end the piano bench.

It was tough to see that era pass, but we were both growing up. And there was only so much damage the living room could take.

Besides, it was soon supplanted by the next great game on the horizon: Falling down the stairway in slow motion after pretending to be shot.

We bounced off the walls, hit the banister hard, rolled across the floor and collapsed in a heap.

It was enough to make our parents wish we'd go back to playing sock football.

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