Electric Football

March 2, 2026

“When you’re experiencing a low…when the medication isn’t working, Rob…what does it feel like?” Dr. Nandipati asked.

“That’s a tough one doc. It’s hard to describe.”

“Try.”

“Well…it’s like …it’s like…Electric Football.”

I could tell from the sympathetic smile on her face that my description as apt and, dare I say…poetic… as it was, required a working knowledge of boyhood in the 1960’s. Apparently…I’m not sure why…that was not included in the 21st century pre-med curriculum at Cornell or post-med residency at Mt. Sinai.

Ivy League, schmivy league.

I blame Mrs. Hogan. 

Not for my neurologist’s poor education on baby boomer boys…as troubling at that was…but for a tendency when, struggling to get these damn words to work , to rely on all those things in 8^th grade English the other kids hated and sensibly forgot.

You know…similes, metaphors, analogies, symbolism, alliteration and the elusive onomatopoeia.  

Mrs. Hogan was a no-nonsense 8^th grade English teacher at Rincon Valley Junior High. (“Home of the Mighty Falcons”). Here she is. The gal with her right hand on her shoulder giving me the stank eye.

I got that a lot.

Quick Sherman. Into the way back machine. Set the destination to October of 1969. First period. Let’s make it a Monday.”

• Rob: “Okay, Mrs. H, I think I got this. A simile can be a metaphor but a metaphor need not be a simile. Right?”
• Mrs. H: “That’s right.”
• Rob: [scribbling notes]”And a simile always starts with a ‘like’ or ‘as’.” Right?”
• Mrs. H: “Not always.”
• Rob: “Like?”
• Mrs. H: “Yes”
• Rob: “No, like when?
• Mrs. H “Like when, what?”
• Rob: “Like when does a simile not start with “like” or “as.”
• Mrs. H: “It might start with a ‘than’.”
• Rob: [erasing his notes] “So…’like’…’as’… or… ‘than.”
• Mrs. H: “No, not ‘so.'”
• Rob: [More erasing] “Not ‘so’, got it.”
• Mrs. H: “When King Lear said, ‘sharper than a serpent’s tooth’, that’s a simile, even though there is no “as” or “like.”
• Rob: “Or ‘so.'”
• Mrs. H: “Forget ‘so’, Rob.'”
• Rob: “Riiiight…so…I mean…when he wrote As You Like It, Shakespeare was using a double simile.”
• Mrs. H: “No.”
• Rob: ” A single simile?”
• Mrs. H: “No.”
• Rob: “But it is a metaphor.”
• Mrs. H: “No.”
• Rob: “Riiiight [tearing up notes]…I got it.”

That’s when I would usually get the stank eye.

Where was I?

Oh yeah…Electric Football.

Let me explain.

 Electric Football was a game when I was a kid. It would seem primitive by today’s standards. What you did was carefully place a bunch of tiny toy football players in formation on a thin green metal sheet resembling a football field.

When you threw the switch, the metal sheet would vibrate. The players would then bounce around on the metal field, not so much a coordinated football play as a communal epileptic seizure, skittering in every direction but seldom toward the goal line.

On my “Electric Football” days, I have to sit in place, wrap my arms around my shoulders, and try as best I can to ride it out until my brain turns the electricity off, the field no longer bounces, the players stop, and I can regroup .

I go deep.

It doesn’t hurt. I’m not in pain. It usually happens in the evening. Sometimes it passes; sometimes it doesn’t. Those are long nights.

Cathy knows. It’s frustrating for her. She wants to help. To get me something. A cup of tea? She sits nearby. Patient.

I know what you’re thinking.

Yeah, yeah, yeah Rob. Cry me a river. There are fellas out there dealing with real pain, chronic pain who would give their left nut to dial back their daylong misery to my internal nocturnal frenzy. Folks in the throws of chemo therapy, folks with MS, or ALS who would say, “That’s all you got, Jackson? That’s it?”

“Hold my beer.”

And there are folks in later stage Parky’s who would say, “You just wait, Berto.”

I know.

I get it.

When Electric Football nights come, I try to remind myself. Jackson, you live in the land of the fortunate. In a time better than any before. In the best state. In the best county in that state. The best weather in the world. No mosquitoes. No humidity. Cool nights and warm days. Hell, you can walk down the street and have anything you want to eat. At what time in history was that ever possible?

You’ve got Cathy. You’ve got John and Linda and Sue. Craig, Patti, Bob and Mimi.

You’ve got Kate and Matt, Sam and Hil, Nick and Gabby and eight squirrels: Jack, Finn, Avery, Grady, Olly, Rhyse, Bowie and Cole. You’ve got Lisa and Stella. You’ve got the best friends a fella might have in Mark, Ian and Bow. A book club with fellas you’ve known for twenty years.

And you’ve got your words. Words with which to play. Words with which to torment your doctors. Words with which to amuse yourself and maybe others. What more could a man want?

Thanks Mrs. H.

I think I’ve got this.

.