This is the time of the year when the bonds of love and affection between me and my parents temporarily snap.
As long as I can recall, my mother and father have been football fanatics. I am now 30 years old, and they are in their late 50s and in fine health and humor, thanks to my mother`s obsession with oat bran and my father`s relentless, albeit misguided, belief that he is the funniest man on the planet. From February through August, these two Midwestern parents of 7 and grandparents of 12 are good company, capable of engaging in conversation on a wide variety of personal and political issues.
But come the first brisk winds of September, they enter the Football Zone. Especially my mother. Although she claims to have been a baseball fan in her adolescence, I am doubtful this diversion provoked the hair-raising, blood-curdling wails and yelps that a weekend observing the gridiron does.
In contrast to my mother`s ferocity-”THROW it. THROW it. THROW it. THROOOOW IT!!!”-my father watches a football game with a quiet intensity punctuated by an occasional ”Iamtryingtowatchthegame”-this directed at anyone who interjects an unrelated comment. One should never suggest watching, say,
”Love Connection” on another channel while THE game is in progress.
The family has made the necessary adjustments dictated by the football season. My siblings and I are fully aware that telephoning during an important football game means instant verbal annihilation, or worse, a tortured play-by- play. So we refrain from calling unless it`s a medical emergency.
A blessing, although I`m sure my parents and male siblings would beg to differ, is that none of my three athletic brothers possessed the physical attributes to play football beyond their high school years. During one heart- stopping high school football season my brother Ted played varsity for a powerhouse team that went to the state championships. My parents were all but shoulder to shoulder on the field with him on every play. I kept checking my mother for bruises after each game, and urging my father to wear his helmet in the stands. One of Ted`s more memorable gridiron moments occurred during a playoff game when he was the sole defender on a play and desperately racing after a much faster opponent. Something made him look to the sideline, where he saw our mother running along the fence pleading with him to, well, actually, demanding that he make the tackle. His foe never saw the end zone and the family has never let Ted forget what an obedient child he was.
I`m glad my brothers eventually got into other sports, so my parents could attend to teaching me to drive, etc. However, I believe it has been a distinct advantage to have been raised by parents who love football. I feel fortunate that my mother has never been a sports widow, but rather a parent who helped her sons and daughters appreciate the grace of a touchdown run. And on a cool Friday evening in late autumn, I can look up at the stars and shut my eyes and see my laughing, beautiful mother galloping alongside a fence at a high school football game, calling out my brother`s name.
