There was always something magical and brutal about playing football this time of the year. I have no idea how the professionals do it and at the caliber that they do. But I recall growing up putting on as many layers as possible to stay warm, fend off the dampness, and yet still be able to move around with some measure of agility. Getting tackled or dishing a hit didn't seem to hurt. Getting cut or scraped up didn't matter. That is until you went home, thawed out and found all of those multi-colored bruises all over your body.
But that was the joy of youth and a relatively quick recovery system.
