Touch football keeps ragtag group of guys in the game

OUR TOUCH football season ended last week, after the doctor told me I needed some work done on my elbow.

"Farmer John surgery," I warn my wife.

"I thought it was called Tommy John surgery," Posh says.

"In my case, Farmer John," I say. "First, they take a big sausage. . . ."

"Dad!" screams the lovely and patient older daughter.

"Oops, too much information," chirps Posh.

Actually, too much football. My buddies and I have been playing weekly games of touch football since October, which seems like forever. When we started our season, gas was a mere $3.25 a gallon. Ed McMahon could still afford a house. Kathie Lee hadn't returned to morning TV. Those were the days.

"Did you hear I'm having surgery," I tell my buddy T-Bone, an amazing defender, a Sunday league legend.

"Breast?" he asks.

"Elbow."

"Tommy John?"

"Farmer John," I say, and I can see the concern in his eyes.

"You gonna be OK?" he asks.

"That stuff's all very routine now," I tell him. "First, they take a big sausage. . . ."

It's been a long and glorious football season, running nearly as long as the NBA's, but with more prima donnas. There's the baseball executive, the actor, the former writer on "West Wing." They are all funny and a little crude. In many ways, it's a lot like coaching T-ball.

There are also some attorneys -- eight or 10, at last count -- nice guys who never argue. I've rarely heard an unkind thing come out of one of the attorneys' mouths. That's right, I usually wear earplugs.

"Where's Hillary Rodham Rhymer?" one asks when one of our regulars doesn't show.

"Where's Sauce?" asks another.

"Book club," someone says.

"Sex change," says another.