Issue Index
Full-Time Dads;
The Magazine for Caregiver Fathers
Issue 23
Fall is for football, my son's brand of football: Youth Football. Every Saturday and Sunday, my wife, Maureen, and I travel to towns around Massachusetts which are as familiar to us as Kiev and Beijing so we can set our backsides on refrigerated bleacher seats and endure (did I write "endure"? I meant to write "enjoy") the temporary agonies and short-lived ecstasies of pre-teen athletic competition.
I should mention right away that you have not seen my son, Michael, on the back pages of Flex Magazine advertising miracle substances that turn human muscles into bands of titanium. Nor are you ever likely to. Last season, when he had just turned eleven, he played offensive line for the B-team, weighing in at a massive 87 pounds (approximately 25 of which was his equipment). It was his job to find a politically correct way to mash, pummel and grind into dust 115-pound players on the opposing team so that our running backs could have the opportunity to dance like lunatics in the end zone. When he did have this well enough, he was rewarded with a series of knuckle-shattering high-fives and life-threatening chest bumps. What more could anyone want out of life?
We parents have important jobs, too. First, we must provide sufficient financial support to keep the team going. This requires paying whatever disproportionate admission fees are "suggested", stuffing ourselves with the polystyrene offerings of the snack bar, betting heavily on each week's rigged fifty-fifty lottery, attending golf tournaments, pot-luck dinners, Los Vegas nights and All-The-Linguica-You-Can-Eat cookouts. There is even an annual auction where we contribute our possessions and services and then buy them right back again. We barely have time to make withdrawals from the bank. Emotional support is also important. We must attend every game, being sure to arrive early so that, even during pre-game calisthenics and pep talks, we do not miss a single opportunity to encourage and applaud. "Great quadriceps stretch!" we yell from the stands. "Awesome jumping jack!" We've been acknowledging our kids' achievements like this since the first time they filled their diapers. There is no way we can stop now.
Then we examine the other team for evidence of foul play. "Do you see the size of that number 66," we ask one another. "He's gotta be at least 6 foot 3, 190 pounds." We shake our heads in disbelief at how obviously the weight limit has been skirted. "And check out number 89. It's hard to see through his face guard, but he looks like he needs to shave." We shake our heads again.
Over the weeks of the season, blood-curdling stories circulate of short, rocket-fast axe-murderers who, after scoring 17 touchdowns in three games, turn out to be 26-years-old; of scar-faced assassins who are more than willing to wield weapons in the final seconds of a close game in order to win; of asylum escapees with an incurable fetish for tossing young boys around like rag dolls.
All of this, of course, causes us considerable concern. Our only consolation is that, when our children are fully outfitted in their scientifically-developed gear, the only way they could sustain any kind of injury would be if they were dropped, at just the right angle, off a very tall building.
During Mike's first two years, when he competed at the youngest level, the games followed a benign pattern well-suited to the comforting warmth of fall sunshine. Because of the players'' ages and lack of experience, it was difficult for teams to generate a continuous offensive flow. Occasionally, there were breakaways for touchdowns but usually the team which lost the least yardage won. Watching games from the top row of the stands was a lot like watching 22 magnetized marbles roll around on a pool table.
Last year, however, during the very first quarter of the home opener, we spectators realized how much the increased speed, size and talent level of older players would change our mellow Sunday afternoons. Our boys came out flat and the opposition, a team from Cape Cod, made it clear they were intent on taking no prisoners.
It didn't matter whether our loyal cheerleaders shuffled to the left or pirouetted to the right, turned cartwheels, built pyramids or spelled our town's name with infallible accuracy. Our adversaries looked like Super Bowl champions.
And we soon found out why. News came down from a parent way in back who knew someone who knew someone who was related to someone else that not only did the Cape team recruit from 5 mainland communities, but it also held the rights to youngsters on Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard and all other islands as far away as Bermuda. The opposing fullback bore a marked resemblance to a stevedore who worked on the New Bedford docks and it was practically a fact their nose tackle had been slated for the role of the Terminator if Arnold Schwartzenegger had backed out. Their coach, of course was a direct descendant of Knute Rockne. A long afternoon lay ahead.
But the home team refused to be bullied and gradually the momentum turned around. our defense became stingy with yardage and, on numerous occasions, surged into the backfield for sacks. Our offense began to operate efficiently and moved the ball with poise toward the goal line. There was even a graceful touchdown dash around right end, culminating with a forefinger thrust skyward in a style worthy of a football card. We parents went wild. The cheerleaders shouted that the runner was their man.
The game eventually ended with a lost for us, as did seven others over the course of the season. but an equal number was won and everyone agreed that all the players throughout the league deserved a lot of credit.
After each contest, I would meet Michael on the sidelines, deliver a number of congratulatory slaps to his shoulder pads and helmet and buy him a treat at the concession stand. And why not? He had earned whatever reward I could give to him. Let's face it: it wasn't every day that an eleven-year-old boy and his fellow linesmen could square off against opponents who bore a remarkable resemblance to Hulk Hogan, Dolph Lundgren, Sylvester Stallone and Jean Claude van Damme and live to tell about it.
Copyright 1996 John C. O'Brien
Issue Index
Copyright. All rights reserved.