Let's Get It On!_ The Making of MMA and Its Ultimate Referee - Big John Mccarthy [9]
I raised my kids softer than my dad raised me, no doubt about it. It’s a different world. What’s allowed and what’s acceptable in today’s society is nothing like it was in past generations. When I was a kid, there were no video games or Wiis or Internet or 300-plus channels to choose from on your flat-screen, high-definition TV. Everybody played outside, and not everybody made the Little League team. You learned to deal with disappointment.
My dad grew up in much harsher times, which is why I appreciate what he taught me in my childhood. The lessons I learned from him made me the man, the police officer, and the referee I would be in years to come.
Being a gentleman and helping Mom put on her water ski
What family vacations were like for the McCarthys: water skiing on Lake Havasu, Arizona
WATER BRLLET
AND BLOODY NOSES
Serious sport is war minus the shooting.
—George Orwell
I was going to be the greatest lineman ever to play in the NFL. At least that’s what I thought when I was nine years old. Pro football players like Los Angeles Rams quarterback Roman Gabriel and defensive tackle Merlin Olsen were my heroes.
My dad, who had every expectation that I’d play sports, must have been encouraged by my size. Though I was never the biggest kid, I was always above average, a definite plus for any aspiring pigskin practitioner. At age eight, I even tried out for the Junior All-American team a year early alongside about 200 kids ranging from nine to eleven years old. There were thirty-three spots, and I was the last kid to be cut during hell week after my dad had given me a crash course in tackling to help me hit with power.
When I made the team the next year, the coach wanted to put me at tight end because I could catch any ball thrown to me. But there was one problem: I was as slow as a friggin’ turtle. So he started putting me on the offensive and defensive lines instead. They couldn’t let this big guy go to waste, could they?
For my first few years of football, I had to diet to make the eighty-five-pound cutoff. I ate a lot of steak and stewed tomatoes, then salivated as the other kids scarfed down potato chips and candy. It didn’t make me the happiest camper.
Honestly, I never thought about my size. I wasn’t the biggest or the tallest kid out there. I fell somewhere in between.
From the age of six and into high school, I also played baseball, though I wasn’t what you would call an all-star. I was assigned to pitching and first base because I had a really strong arm, which was both good and bad. I could hum a ball, and it mostly went over the plate. The rest of the time, I had no control over it, which meant it sailed past the batter or beamed him. It happened just enough that kids would take to the plate with their feet slightly turned outward, poised to make a quick getaway. My mom and dad watched from the stands and laughed.
As I got older, my issues with my speed, or should I say lack of speed, became more prominent. I walked with a bounce, and my heels were always sore. I don’t know if this was because of growth spurts or what, but the doctor said my Achilles tendons became too short and began to pull away from their attachments.
Between my freshman and sophomore years, I had surgery on both of my Achilles tendons. The surgery left me immobile for months, and the doctor told me I couldn’t play football. The one activity he did recommend for my rehabilitation was swimming.
In California, almost all of the high schools have swimming pools, so I headed off to mine to find the coach, Scott Massey.
“Okay,” he said, looking me up and down, “but instead of just swimming, why don’t you play water polo?”
I couldn’t even describe what water polo was, but summer was coming and it was something to do. I couldn’t go back to football in the fall, and I definitely couldn’t run cross-country, so I thought I might as well find something to keep me in shape. Water polo it would