This summer, for the first time, we signed up one of our sons — the youngest — for youth football.
He's entering third grade and we thought that meant he could ease into the sport by playing the flag football version. On sign-up day, however, I discovered that third-graders are actually targeted for full-contact.
I made a quick call home to see if that was still OK, and at that moment, an interesting dichotomy emerged between myself, the football-loving dad, and my wife, the football-hating mom.
Mom: "Um ... well ... but ... won't he get hurt? I mean ... tackled? Doesn't sound like a good idea. Maybe we should wait a year or two. We could sign him up for French lessons instead. I suppose if you really, really think that it's OK ..."
Dad: "Greatloveyoubye!"
At every point since, the views on the two sides have continued to be somewhat different. For instance, when we unpacked the helmet, the shoulder pads, the thigh pads, hip pads, knee pads ...
Mom: "Well, at least he's going to have some protection."
Dad: "Geez, in my day we only had to wear the leather helmet. I thought football players were supposed to be tougher than rugby players."
When the young players ran through drills and sprints under the burning August sun ...
Mom: "Is this really necessary? Why don't they take today off or play in a nice air-conditioned gym? Stay hydrated, sweetie!"
Dad: "Toughens them up. Builds team camaraderie. Gets them in shape for the battles ahead. Come on, put some effort into it! You think Tom Brady dogs it in preseason drills?"
When the first day of contact came around and our son was thrown to the ground for the first time and made his first ringing tackle ...
Mom: "Oh, my poor baby! Why are we doing this? He's going to get hurt ... and I'm going to have a talk to that other kid's mother, right now."
Dad: "Come on, boy, wrap him up next time! Tear his head off ... er, metaphorically speaking."
After a few days of practice, our 68-pound son was positioned at offensive guard and defensive tackle. We discovered that he would not dazzle the world with his long touchdown runs or his bullet passes or his diving receptions. He would instead block and be blocked. No headlines, no glory.
Mom: "Well, I guess those mean boys won't be tackling him on every play. That sounds good."
Dad: "Nooooooooooooo ooooooo! Can't they see his uncanny ability to find the hole, and his exceptional vision finding the open receiver in the seams of the zone? I'm going to put together a highlight reel of plays he's made in the backyard ..."
The first game was played last week. After our son made his first legitimate tackle ...
Mom: "Hmmmm? Oh, sorry, I couldn't stand to watch. I'm sure it was quite a nice play. Should we give him a cookie?"
Dad: "... I've never (sob) been so (sob) ... proud (sob) ..."
During all of this, our eldest son continues to show no interest in football, preferring to sit under a nearby tree, perusing books that are well above my reading level. He'd much rather become a biochemical engineer than engineer a touchdown drive.
Mom: "At least we raised one right. You know, one who takes after me."
Dad: "Where did I go wrong? Was it when we put the stuffed rabbit in his crib instead of a tiny football? What was I thinking? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Wait. Maybe when he grows up to be a scientist, he'll create a time machine and I can go back in time to turn him into a football player instead."
Except he's already told me that, while he thinks time travel is possible, he doesn't believe it's ethical to mess with the space-time continuum.
Stupid 10-year-olds.
E-mail Steve Ouellette at: ouellette1918@gmail.com
