By Carl Ehrlich
Special to ESPNBoston.com
Editor's note: Carl Ehrlich, who was the captain of the 2009
Harvard football team, is heading to Spain to play football. He'll
chronicle his experiences on and off the field for
ESPNBoston.com
My name is Carl Ehrlich and I am a Valencia Firebat.
I wasn't always a Firebat. Two months ago I was the 136th
captain of the Harvard University football team. Whatever you might
have thought about the life of a collegiate athlete, I spent my
last season at Harvard working some mighty long hours. Running
between Kantian ethics classes and the cold tubs in the training
room, I worked my tail off to make the most of my last season.
After winning "The Game" against Yale to cap off our 7-3 campaign,
I spent the month of December thinking about how to assimilate into
the post-athletic world. Shirts with sleeves? Dockers? A job?
In the football program, we sometimes refer to this place as the
"Muggle World." My recently employed friends call it "real
life."
But literally minutes after my last exam before graduation (which
was in December -- I dropped out in spring 2009 and returned this
fall to use my last season of eligibility), I received an e-mail
that snatched me from the grasps of reality and turned me into an
Iberian, heat-seeking, airborne rodent.
A Firebat. The Firebats are reigning champions of the LNFA, or Liga
Nacional de Fútbol Americano, Spain's professional football
league -- football, not fútbol, thank you -- and winners of
three of the last four championships.
As a concept, however, a Firebat is the most terrifying creature
in the world. Shuddering at the idea of such a beast, I read
through the team e-correspondence for solace.
The first thing I gathered from my reading was that football
Firebats are multitasking creatures. The fellow who e-mailed me was
the head recruiter, offensive coordinator and, just for good
measure, the starting quarterback.
And the second thing I learned was that the Firebats were
interested in bringing me out to play for them. With
transportation, a place to live and some spending money to sweeten
the deal, this whole "professional athlete" thing was starting to
seem like a reasonable alternative to the white-collar jungle.
I started my Valencia research like any scholar would, on Wikipedia
at 3 in the morning. My first query was "Firebat," and as soon as I
clicked the search button, my computer screen suddenly went black
and my music was replaced by the violent flapping of wings
overhead. It couldn't be, I told myself. There can't be such a
thing as a Firebat.
Putting the thought of this incendiary, sonar-navigated,
gargoyle-like vermin aside, I opened the team's Web page to see
what they were all about. The page is, not surprisingly, written
entirely in Spanish. Having taken a few years of Spanish in school,
I pieced together enough of the front article to conclude that we
were in fact talking about the same sport. The only English on
their home page is a massive banner underneath their logo that
reads "JUST WIN." That's a team policy I can get behind.
After checking the team's Web site, I went to YouTube in hopes that
I could catch some game film. Success. With uniforms like those of
the 1970s Pittsburgh Steelers, the Firebats are playing some
old-school football. Two-back sets. Lots of running between the
tackles.
The resolution wasn't that good, but I'm fairly certain that I saw
a single-bar face mask in there.
Scrolling through some of the team pictures on a third Web site, I
did a double-take. Were those palm trees in the background of the
stadium? Looking out over the Mediterranean Sea, Valencia's beach
season appears to be a bit longer than the two weeks we got in
Boston this past summer.
Aside from warm beaches and palm trees, Valencia is also home of a
celebration called Las Falles. Las Falles is, put simply, the
wildest celebration I have ever heard of. Luckily, I'll be in town
for it and will be able to give a firsthand account, but Las Falles
sounds like something that goes beyond words. Literally meaning
"the fires," Las Falles is a five-day celebration where the city
population is more than tripled and the streets are literally set
ablaze.
Asking someone who had seen it for a description, he told me to
"imagine a Fourth of July parade where the floats are stuffed with
illegal fireworks and set on fire." The first line describing the
celebration on another Web site is, "Does the smell of gunpowder
excite you?" Gravely, I pray it won't excite any of these airborne
hellions.
But before I made a final decision on the Valencia Firebats' e-mail
offer, I did what any respectable lineman would do before
finalizing a deal -- I checked out the local cuisine.
As it turns out, Valencia and I have something in common: Much of
our time revolves around food.
Lunch is the biggest meal of the day in Spain. Because Spain starts
its workday much later than the United States, lunch is the first
big event of the day. It is eaten in huge portions for an extended
period of time.
Their favorite meal? Paella. As it should be. Valencia lays proud
claim to being the official home of paella. I couldn't make this up
if I tried.
And after lunch, the people of Valencia show the second thing they
have in common with any lineman worth his weight: They sleep after
they eat. After they enjoy this daily feast, the town shuts down
again as people go home for their afternoon siesta. Somebody pinch
me.
Considering all of the draws of Valencia, I e-mailed our do-it-all
quarterback and told him I was interested. A few e-mails and a
phone call later, I came to an arrangement with the team president
and I was more or less on the team.
I'm not sure how many professional careers are "more or less"
started, and I'm not sure this is how we imagine professional
sports, but I bet it'll work for me. Let me play some football in
the sun and grab a post-paella nap on the beach and I think I'll be
OK without the news conferences.
