Leave the Guy Talk To the Guys?

In lieu of stealing any sports related thunder from the men around here, I’m go to go ahead and -gulp- talk football.


Yeah, I know. I have a vagina. I ought to be a good girl and stick to matters in correspondence with said genitalia like, oh I don’t know, how to make your arms look less bread loaf-y in a photo by a simple, yet physically unnatural placement of the hand-on-hip , or like acting indifferent to a guy via text will make him want you even more it or like WTF? I got so wasted Saturday night and showed my tits to my bother’s best friend or omigod I totally hate the gym but love being bisexual. Totally. Omigod. Like actually, really seriously.


Don’t lie. There’s a part of you, minuscule as it may be, that is intrigued with the girliness. You wander on over to the Ladies territory for a cheap and nimble dessert, after you’ve downed 10 or 14 beers and a brat in the sports section and before you indulge in an extended nitecap with the Girl’s Next Door. Any other day, I’d be okay with this.


But today the oven is cold, the kitchen abandoned and Momma traded her apron for pads, a jersey and eye black and that beer better be cold when I get there! 


First off, let me prelude my feeble attempts at consuming beer and brats alongside the boys with a simple disclaimer: I’m doing the Super Bowl Shuffle on fertile Astroturf here and I’m surely outta my league (and did I mention that I don’t eat red meat?). But for months now, I’ve cautiously bestowed my womanly nonsense upon you and for the most part, left the sports to the Godfather of this cyber assembly. After having timidly felt you out though, I’m confident that at this point, I can give you a solid reach around that would have Polanski saying......ahem, well never mind.


So now that I’ve established our standings, please, try not to sack me before I can throw an acceptable spiral.


My past exposure to football was comprable to most broads; I was a casual fan with a raw and basic comprehnsion of what was really going on. Even though I participated in all the energized commotion, my attention span was similar to the Thursday chick on an action packed Saturday night out on the town. I’d watch a bit, get distracted, watch some more and OH! something shiny, watch a few more plays find another preoccupation and so forth.


That all changed when I bore the boy child of a SLUH and Mizzou alumn. My kid was saying Peyton Manning with perfect enunciation before he even uttered the word Mom. Instead of Baby Einstein, we would plop him down in front of the tube for Monday Night Football. When he was 5, he had convinced himself that he owed his very own namesake to Tom Brady, even though I explained that he wasn’t named after him. In kindergarten, he would come home with meticulous drawings of various football plays. When he was 6, he insisted on playing flag football and was nicknamed the “Legend” due to his advanced football cognition.


And then, at 7, came tackle football.


And that’s when I went from a mediocre fan to a full blown afficionado (and the Team Mom).


With two hour practices twice a week, Saturday games in rural areas where football and getting pregnant are the only social activities, drill sergeants for coaches and parental drama that would make an episode of The Hills look tame. I soon came to realize, that even at an elementary age, this shit is serious!


I learned the holes, learned the plays, the team, the weaknesses, what kid to put where, who could make a good tackle, who could make a good run and who could do both. I watched my precious angel get clobbered by corn fed kids who looked like they could’ve driven to the game. I sat through games in the heat, during thunderstorms, in the cold and sometimes severely hung over. When my son would get the pre-game nerves so intense that he would dry heave and refuse to get out of the car, I would give him sometimes harsh ultimatums like “get out that field or there will be no Halloween”. Then I would watch him get the snot knocked out of him or get his arm tangled in a mountain of helmets and spikes, which in turn, forced me to question my entire existence as a mother. Wasn’t it just yesterday he told me I was the most beautiful lady in the world? And this is how I show my gratitude?


You bet your ass!


Because, now I have a better grasp on football. It nurtures discipline and breeds unyielding backbone. It sharpens analytical skills and teaches cause and effect. It develops sportsmanship. It encompasses everything American.


And these kids get it. They idolize the pros. They go out and imitate their favorite players, get pounded on and get back up. And aside from a post game Happy Meal, they do it for free. They don’t think about Rush Limbaugh, Rick Sanchez, Checkettes, Fergie (for crying out loud), criminal conduct, racism, greed, politics and everything else that is riddling the NFL right now (you all know, so I won’t beat a dead horse).


The kids do it because they truly love the game, which sadly, seems a diminishing motive with their present day NFL heroes.