Our East German reporter friend who wrote the article for the Communist magazine "Der Reporter" on the evils of American football, would have been overjoyed if he had dropped in at Soldiers Field the other day. What he would have been there would have gladdened his heart.

In the freezing slime of the practice field, the J.V. football team was playing one of its few regularly scheduled games.

First, he would have taken note of the conditions and wondered at the insanity of the American football player. The wind raised havoc with the passes; the setting sun glared into the eyes of the passer; each time someone fell, his face slid along in the slimy mud; yet no one seemed to care.

Actually, they weren't really people; just eleven numbers and grimy numbers at that. A band of misfits, too old to play freshman football and not good enough for the varsity, yet putting in long, hard hours of practice.

The surroundings might have caused him to scratch his head thoughtfully, for here wasn't the glamour to which he was accustomed, the glamour of a big Saturday game with all the trappings. In the place of cheerleaders and huge concrete stadium were other members of the team sitting on the four-tiered wooden bleacher wrapped in parkas against the cold.

He might have heard one of the muddy-numbers mutter, "Sometimes I don't know why I play football," obviously thinking about the frustration of waiting for his coach to yell, "O.K., warm up." The writer could possibly have known that there is no glory in being a j.v. Maybe some slither along in the mud of the practice field in anticipation of a greater glory next year on the varsity, but the others know that they have little chance of becoming varsity players, let alone varsity stars . . . it just doesn't happen very often.

The reporter would have grinned at the groan of the opponent after he had been hit by an exceptionally vicious tackle, or the shout from the other side, "All right, hit 'em while they're down."

All this he would have taken note of and it would have gladdened his heart, for this is the sort of thing he had told his readers about. But, probably, he didn't really understand football.

He, perhaps, couldn't understand why these thirty or so guys spend every afternoon running plays for the varsity to practice against; how they manage to sweat through an inch-thick coat of mud in a freezing cold; why they play 60 minutes of football amid these dreary surroundings spurred on by a cheering manager; he couldn't understand that these guys love football