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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Out in small town Texas, a handshake is a deal. Folks go to church on Sunday, say grace at every meal. Men open doors for ladies, kids say sir and ma'am. Boys can't wait to join the Corps, and serve their Uncle Sam. But if you were to go there, come autumn Friday nights the place might be deserted, when the whole darn town unites, upon a spread of hallowed ground, a grassy green expanse, to celebrate their civic pride and watch the six man dance. Now this dance is not for sissies, and I think you would agree if you knew a bit about a man by the name of Jack Pardee. Yep, they call it six man football, and they don’t get much acclaim. They don't play for scholarships, but for the glory of the game. Three up front and three in back, any lad can be the man to pass or catch or run the ball, and kick it if he can. A first down costs you fifteen yards; a field goal gets you four. You’ll hardly wait two minutes there before another score. Because for those without some speed, this game is not contrived, and if one team can't keep it up, they might get forty-fived. That's what they call the mercy rule, 'cause scoring is so fast. No point in running up the tab when one team is outclassed. So if you want a taste of life the way it used to be, where folks can trust each other and kids can still run free, and there’s a game where little fellers surely stand a chance, drive out to small town Texas, and watch the six man dance. © December 9, 2012
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