Every year at around this time, I will walk out into the morning air and smell something very familiar. The waning summer and oncoming fall combine to create a sensory experience that is synonymous with one thing, and one thing only-football.

When I was 7 years old I put on the pads for the first time and played organized youth football with the East Rockaway Raiders. The clearest memory I have of that first year is my first play on the field in a game. I was sent in at the guard-or tackle-position, playing defense. I was not yet comfortable in a three-point stance, and I do recall having difficulty holding my head up as the back of the helmet butted up against my shoulder pads. The ball was snapped, and instead of charging the backfield, the offensive lineman drove me back about 15 yards-probably double the length of the actual gain on the play. But it really did not matter. I got comfortable eventually, and became an OK player.

When mid-August arrived, it was time to begin practices. It is here that the familiar grass smell that became synonymous with my favorite sport began to settle into the recesses of my brain. For three months, three times a week, that grass was in our face during practices and on game Sundays. Almost every summer was spent like that for over a decade, too. And things were very different then.

Practice-and games-were really family affairs. Parents would show up three times a week, with lawn chairs and dinner and watch the 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. practice sessions with interest. They were not brutal sideline parents, but rather encouraging. They trusted the coaches to teach, protect and even discipline their sons.

Many years later, I became a coach for the same organization. I was in my early 20s, and somehow found myself running a team for a few years. Much of that time was spent dealing with kids who did not listen to any voice of authority. Some did not even like to play football, but were forced to by parents who thought they could benefit from the structure. Gone were the throngs of parents who would spend their evenings socializing while their kids practiced. Instead, I was a babysitter for kids coming from broken homes and a stand-in for uninterested and uninvolved parents. It seemed the cars would barely slow to a stop, kids would get kicked out, and the coaches were on duty.

I fielded calls from angry parents all week about why I ran certain plays or why their kids did not play. They did not want to hear that their son-who they thought was the next Joe Montana-hated football. It was exhausting dealing with parents, but absolutely exhilarating dealing with the kids. Eventually even the difficult ones learned to relax and listen. The crazy ones find a special place in the coach’s heart, too. Very often, it is because the coach knows that the kid is living in a difficult world. You have to be aware of the background to understand the child. It’s no wonder some kids have a hard time being on a football team, when their families had no organization or trust. They got that through football.

This all occurs to me this time of year, and that’s why I love the game. It elicits visceral emotions in me. I wonder if my teammates from so long ago are doing well. I think about the kids I coached and hope they grew smart and safe, and if some of them rose above their challenges. I see my father on the sideline, flashing me hand signals to stay low. I can remember my heart racing as I watched one of my kids go around the end for six.

That smell also reminds me that the Giants somehow won the Super Bowl last year. I know, that came from out of nowhere-but I had to say it.

E-mail Michael Martino at mmartino@longislandpress.com.