* A real football player thinks dislocated shoulders, ruptured kidneys, and decapitations are coveted badges of honor. I complain to my wife about sore hammies and blisters when a game is finished. At Fuller’s post-game parties, we toast our victories and bemoan our losses with bottles of aspirin and tubs of Icy Hot.

* Real football players attack the ball like wild dingoes, and will recklessly insert their heads between the rapidly scissoring thighs of 240-lb. running backs. Fuller football players are at risk of injury regardless of contact – many a seminarian has pulled his groin by attempting a full-out sprint without stretching.

These differences are OK when our special brand of football is played within our grace and peace oriented community, but I’ve found that the outside world isn’t so understanding of our game.

Flag football is already spoken of in hushed tones among men because it’s not the real thing. But at Fuller our game is further distanced from its testosterone and sweat-filled ancestor because our league is co-ed. I’m not opposed to co-ed football, but when girls enter the "100-yard-war" the tone of the battle changes. Having females on the field means that my intensity level has to drop lest the ladies think me a competitive animal, driven by the desire to dominate the opposition – which is essentially what I am. Playing football with girls makes me feel self-conscious – kind of like I feel when I drop my wife off at a baby shower and have to go in and meet all the ladies.

In addition to being co-ed, there is also absolutely no physical contact allowed in Fuller flag football – I remember one instance where my flag whiffed an opponents hip as I ran by him – this grazing was interpreted as hazing and I was flagged for a 15-yard personal foul! At least in regular flag football you still pass-rush, block, and manage some collisions when going for passes. But here at Fuller – NO contact is the rule.

Disallowing contact helps we Christian guys avoid getting overly zealous in our drive to love one another selflessly and beat the chalupas out of each other.

It’s interesting how competition can seem to reverse the sanctification of Christian guys. I remember in college when I played for my University Christian Fellowship intramural basketball team. We prayed before games, and did our best to be a sportsmanlike witness to the fraternity teams. But when we played the Campus Crusade for Christ team kumbaya and koinonia were replaced by "We will rock you," and "in your face." Our game against the Crusade team was a sharp-elbowed, shoulders lowered, trash-talking affair. We were shamed by our conduct.

The only good thing about that experience is that we stomped those Crusade guys.

But I digress.

By Fuller rules, blocking becomes more of an exercise in herding. As the rusher advances, the blocker shuffles her feet to get into the rusher’s path, thereby forcing him to change direction in order to avoid contact. I recall many instances where I’m charging the quarterback and a 100-lb. waif of a girl deftly steps in my path. I stagger to a halt just before plowing her, and juke left. Quicker than I, the pixie matches my jukes and we engage in a clumsy dance – she mirrors my every move and follows my jerky leads precisely. When practicing the nuances of this dance, I typically don’t notice when the quarterback sprints downfield.

The best blocker in Fuller football wouldn’t be a 300-lb. hog, but a 40-lb. sheep dog. Special cleat-wearing sheep dogs could be trained to dodge in front of charging out-of-shape seminary students. The quarterback would just relax in the pocket as his cleated-canines create a virtual force field around him.

Within the Fuller community, flag football is played with gusto and good humor. The embarrassment comes when our "special" brand of football is revealed to the outside world – creating irreparable cultural shame and offense. Recently, I was blindsided when I exposed our game to an innocent worldly jock, deeply offending his sense of propriety.

It all started because I suffer from a socially debilitating handicap that often afflicts men – I’m competitive. Therefore, I need every advantage I can get on the football field. No, I do not take performance-enhancing drugs. Rather, I decided to buy a pair of football cleats so that poor traction would be eliminated from my list of excuses for poor performance.

One day at the local mall, I walked up the escalator and entered the Champs sporting goods store where a young, buff, football-playing clerk came to help me.

"I’m here to get some football cleats," I said, realizing that he might be sizing me up, wondering if the cleats are for me. "They’re for me…I’m just going to play some flag football, you know, I gotta make sure I’ve got every advantage I can get out there…"

"Sure, sure…that’s cool," the guy played along. It wasn’t just my insecurity talking – in the men’s Universal Code of Conduct and Manly Understanding, flag football is really code for "Football For Old Guys." But his pity didn’t overrule his quest for commission. "Where do you play?" he asked.

"Fuller Theological Seminary," I said self-consciously, expecting him to know that Who Let the Dogs Out isn’t exactly our theme song.

"Oh yeah? Seminary, huh…yeah, that’s cool," the guy said lamely. He looked at the counter and bit his lip. There was a long, awkward pause. Then, feeling merciful, he tried to make me feel better about my manhood. "Flag football’s cool though," he offered. "… I mean, it can get pretty intense with all your boys on the field, getting’ fired up, goin’ after each other and everything …"

"It’s co-ed," I mumbled hastily, digging my toe into the carpet.

There was an awkward pause as I watched his football paradigm confront this epistemological crisis. At last he registered this new information, shrank back, and took a few rapid steps away from me. I randomly grabbed some cleats and headed back to the cash register. The clerk searched for words. Then, in his time of trauma – just like an elite special-forces member – he reverted to his guerrilla salesperson training and went in for the add-on sale.

"Hey, man, I know you’re just playing flag football," he ventured. "But I know how it is…things can get pretty physical on the line, elbows swingin’ and all … you want to get yourself a mouth guard?"

I froze. My mind screamed "Just buy the mouth guard! Buy the mouth guard! Mayday! Mayday! Cut your losses, pick up the shards of your dignity, and evacuate the premises!" My thoughts sputtered and stalled like a pass-rusher in a no-contact football game. My breath was short. I considered my options, weighing the pros and cons of bashing the clerk over the head with a high top, gouging him with a shoehorn, or fleeing the store by leaping over the balcony to the lower mall level. Anything to escape this neutering nightmare.

But my integrity was on the line – I had to be honest.

"It’s no-contact flag football," I whispered to no one in particular, unable to look at the once buff salesman, whose shoulders were now drooping.

His eyes communicated betrayal – I was an accomplice to the tarnishing of his bastion of masculinity. He looked at me like I was unclean – like I needed to be banished to forever dwelling outside the Champs. I paid in cash so as to remain nameless, and left without getting my change. The wilted salesman watched in silence as I left Champs, forever a chump. I was just thankful that he hadn’t called mall security.

Since this episode, I’ve been once bitten-twice shy about sharing Fuller flag football with the outside world. And I don’t mean to sound soft, but my feet are killing me in these over-sized cleats and my wife is getting tired of my complaints. Is anyone willing to make a run to Champs for me?