[September 16, 2026] Lying flat on my back, in the dirt, filthy, sweaty, head spinning, with terrible pain in my left shoulder, I thought, “How the heck did I get here?” This time, I knew the answer.
It’s the year 2010: Combat Football.
Sometime in the early morning hours, just at sunrise, often still cool, dusty-smelling, and with little if any breeze, we played our weekly games. We were near the heart of Baghdad, Iraq, in the last days of the war.
A big black Sergeant with a huge smile asked if I was in pain. I still hadn’t got my wits about me. He said, in a booming voice of concern, “Sir, you got tripped up and hit the dirt real hard.”
Just then, the pain came stampeding back, and my shoulder was on fire and sagging in a bizarre way. “Sir, I think you dislocated it.” It wasn’t the pain that bothered me so much as being unable to get up by myself and stand without two big dudes helping me.
One of them volunteered to drive me to the nearby aid station so a doctor could take a look. My bad luck was to find the doctor still asleep, so they went to wake him. It seemed like forever for him to arrive and diagnose what seemed evident by that point: a dislocated shoulder.
We had been playing Combat Football with about 35 or 40 Soldiers and Marines on an open, hard-packed dirt field. A week earlier, one of our Marines got hurt badly with the same injury, plus a broken hand and a concussion. Not surprisingly, our unofficial Engineer motto was, “Work hard, play hard.”
Back at the aid station, the medics seemed intimidated by me. One said, “There are only two kinds of people we get in here this time of day: combat wounded and Engineers.” I was not combat-wounded.
A short, young medic asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee, and I nodded. Then, almost apologetically, she asked for my pistol and spare ammo. Giving up my weapon felt strange. In an active war zone, I was never without my pistol or rifle. I knew the rules, so I handed them over.
“Sir, we never had a Colonel officer in our clinic before,” Another medic said. “You must be an Engineer.“ All I wanted was to get my shoulder fixed, some breakfast, and a way back to work.
After the doctor reset my shoulder and put my arm in a sling, he told me I would be evacuated to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany by military aircraft. This is where U.S. military doctors would review my shoulder to determine whether I could remain in combat.
“Nope, Doc, I ain’t going nowhere; thanks for your help. I’m a senior officer, not a door kicker. I’m going back to work.” Then I got my pistol and ammo, walked out, and went to do exactly that.
That morning, I knew how I got there, and it started with a little boy learning lessons about masculinity.
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Combat football on a dirt field in Baghdad at sunrise sounds like a bad idea until you remember what year it was. In 2010 the war was winding down, but the men still needed a place to hit something that was not an IED. About forty Soldiers and Marines showed up, and the unofficial Engineer rule was work hard and play hard. A Marine had already gone down the week before with a shoulder, a broken hand, and a concussion. This time a senior officer (guess who?) got tripped, slammed into the ground, and came up with a shoulder that did not belong where it sat. The aid station medics said they only saw two kinds of patients that early: combat wounded and Engineers. Handing over a pistol for a cup of coffee with one working arm is the kind of rule that only makes sense in a war zone. The doctor wanted to fly him to Germany, and he said no because the job was not finished. That is either grit or stubborn pride, and in Baghdad those two things often looked the same. Walking back to work in a sling beats a free trip to Landstuhl when you still have people depending on you. The story starts with a boy learning how to be a man, and it ends with a colonel choosing duty over a hospital bed. Thanks General Satterfield for this story.
Sir, good story. And that is the danger, and the adventure of being in a combat zone. You take the risks of enemy fire, and hard-nosed team play. It’s the team play that takes out all that frustration and anger. Good for you, Gen. Satterfield, and for your troops who played that day and all the other days while there. Many of those same troops will come home and remember those days. Me? I never played “combat football” but I can understand how enticing it would be. Even for the ‘weaker’ troops (like the women and Gen. Satterfield … ha ha ha ha). I’m glad I came here today and read this funny but serious artifcle. Thanks.
🏈📺🍻🍕 Time for some football. Thanks Navy Vet for your service. 🪖👍🇺🇸✅
Even hurt, he took back his pistol and returned to duty, living the unofficial engineer motto: work hard, play hard.
Go for it, Gen. S. 😂
It doesn’t surprise me one bit that Gen. Satterfield is out on the field playing “combat football” with young soldiers and Marines. And he gets hammered. I think earlier that he was in his 50s by this time, and beyond his physical prime. I understand completely. He wants to be in the arena. And that is a calling for many men.
COMBAT FOOTBALL ……… YEAH
Combat football in Baghdad sounds like a smart idea until your shoulder tries to live somewhere beyond its age. I smiled at the sergeant having to explain the trip while you were still staring at the sky. That dirt field was not a playground, and the Marine the week before already proved the ground does not lose. The line about the clinic seeing only combat wounded and Engineers before breakfast was the best part of the story. Giving up a pistol for a cup of coffee with one working arm is the kind of rule that only makes sense in a war. The young medic who had never treated a Colonel probably hoped you would just go back to the field. The doctor wanted to fly you to Germany, and you told him no because the job was not finished. That is either grit or hard-headed pride, and in 2010 those two things looked the same. Work hard, play hard is a good motto until somebody has to shove your arm back into place. Walking back to work in a sling beats a free ride to Landstuhl any day. A boy can learn toughness in the yard, but a man shows it when he chooses duty over a hospital bed.
Thank you Yusaf for confirming General Satterfield’s ideas.
Reminds me of my days playing with my Soldiers. They were like family and, yes, we did also play hard, work hard, and (in those days) drink hard. Those were the days.