My Sunday column: Down goes Espy, down goes Espy

There was a lot of hard hitting in the Dalton Catamounts-Rome Wolves game on Thursday.
Trust me, I know.
A few plays into the third quarter, I got all the evidence I would need. It came in the form of two — I am told by witnesses — players crashing into your favorite editor on the sideline.
I am convinced that one of them had to be behemoth Dalton tackle Watts Dantzler or SEC-bound defensive end Jalen Fields. At least I hope so. It would be awfully embarrassing if I took a lick like that from some 155-pound scatback nicknamed “Skeeter.”
I played some football back in the day, and was on the receiving end of a few nasty shocks.
In midget ball I was kicked in the head by the league’s biggest player. Note that I did not say he ran over me or tackled with me with gusto. No, this prize piece of humanity kicked me in the head while I was on the ground.
Thirty-five or so years later I remember the onrush of symptoms we now know as a concussion. Back then, the coaches called it “getting your bell rung” and treated it by giving you a drink of water and a pat on the backside.
In high school we had a fullback named Terry Farmer. His nickname was “Rock.” I had the audacity to tackle Rock one warm spring afternoon, sliding inside from my defensive tackle position to fill the 2 hole.
It was there — in the 2 hole — that Rock and I bumped heads. Kaboom. He went down. I went down. He got up. I did not.
Instead, I tried to take a quick power nap, right there in the middle of practice.
Head coach Ron Williams did not think this was a good idea and had me carted away. I am sure they gave me water as well.
A few days later, I once again dared to attempt a tackle in the backfield. I blew past the offensive lineman only to realize (at the last second) that the offense was running a trap play and I was the big dummy being trapped.
That epiphany occurred a nanosecond before our superb right guard Wendell Black knocked me out of my shoes. Every molecule in my body hurt for two days.
Thursday’s night’s “de-cleater” felt more like the Wendell Black hit. It was more jarring than anything.
One second I was standing there watching the game. Then I was on my back with at least one sweaty young man on top of me. I assure you that doesn’t happen often, so I knew something was amiss.
I remember hearing the Dalton student section let out a collective moan and then some wisenheimer punk said, “Did you see that old guy get hit?”
Of course being called the “that old guy” was the most painful part of the whole episode. But not by much.
I lay there for a moment, making sure that my cardiovascular system was still functioning. Being “that old guy” I knew not to try and bounce up immediately. People who do that almost always fall over again, often in a comical manner that lands them on “SportsCenter” or “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
I testily declined assistance and just stayed down, checking my personal biological systems like Mr. Scott going over a checklist in the engine room of the Starship Enterprise.
Once I confirmed that my dilithium crystals were indeed working, I rose and watched the rest of the game, shaky, achy and embarrassed.
I am a 30-plus year sideline veteran and should know better than to let my mind wander during game action, particularly on a sideline as tight as at Harmon Field.
The worst part of the night?
At home, after telling my wife what had happened and showing her the bloody place on my left arm, that lovely woman with whom I consented to make a child suggested I hang up my sport writer gear and start covering ... theater.
Ouch.
The best thing about the incident:
It gave me a column idea.

Jimmy Espy is executive editor of The Daily Citizen. He can still take a hit.