First Game

Whew. One full week of football practice complete, and one game under our flag belt. It was a week where I learned as much about myself as I did about Joe-Henry. Sadly, I still know nothing about football.

I still feel faint when I think about the kids who smashed into each other head first at practice. And I wasn't even there. One of the boys had to be taken to the hospital with a broken nose. They had to wait a half hour on the field to find his parents, who had gone somewhere without telling the coach and didn't have a cell phone. Or something. I'm not sure.

In any case, it was a long, agonizing time for everyone involved. I wanted to pull Joe-Henry right then.

Or wrap him from head to toe in bubble wrap.

Or fit him with some sort of electrical force field that sends other kids flying when they get within 6 inches of him.

But I didn't do any of that. Even when, on Saturday morning, instead of feeling excited and thrilled for his FIRST. FOOTBALL. GAME. EVER!!!, he was near tears, saying "Mom, they push you down. I'm scared! Can't I play baseball instead?" As much as I wanted to say "YES! Woooohoooo! Let's QUIT FOOTBALL!", Charley and I both agreed that he needed to at least give it a go in his first game. See how that goes.

When we got to the field, there were a million kids of all shapes and sizes. Some of the teams were so tiny it was hard to imagine that they'd even been walking for more than a year. And some of the teams looked huge. And imposing. And together. I felt a huge knot in my stomach, and my palms immediately began to sweat. I looked around and found Joe-Henry, who had already found his coach and his team, and was suddenly all focus and if he felt afraid right then, I didn't see it. All the kids had their mouthguards in, and were listening intently to the coach. He was explaining that the boy who had the broken nose had been taken to the hospital and wouldn't be attending the game today. He was telling them how important it was to listen to him, and how important it was to have fun. That was Rule Number One. He didn't care if they won or lost. If they had fun, that was all that mattered.

They all moved to the sidelines, waiting for their field, when suddenly I heard the coach yell "NICK!!! YOU MADE IT!" I looked, and there in front of the coach and all the kids, stood a smiling Nick, with a gigantic forehead and nose. He looked like a friendly little alien. The coach kneeled down and said "I'm so glad you came to the game to watch the team!", and Nick looked crestfallen.

"Can't I play?" The coach gave him a huge hug and said "I don't want you to get hurt. Do you want to play? Really?"

"Well, yeah!" Earnest puppy dog eyes peeping through giant forehead.

So the coach gently put the jersey over Nick's head and said "I'll save you for the important plays, okay?"

The game went without any injuries for our team. The other team had a kid carried off the field, but I saw him walking it out, so I think he's okay. Joe-Henry played a bit, with all the focus and heart he had, and said he loved every second of it, even though they lost 2-0. The other team had this HUGE kid who was their ringer. He wasn't just big, he was fast and there was no stopping him. They also had a girl on their team, but she didn't get much playing time. The other team had plays and you could tell they all had done this before. Our team was sort of like the Bad News Bears. They didn't have any plays, they didn't really know where to run, and everyone got a chance to play. After the game, the coach even said, "yeah, you guys are kind of a bunch of rag tag raggamuffins, but I don't care - you all looked like you were having a great time!" So the guy who said this, totally redeemed himself in my eyes.

There is the obligatory parent who undermines the coach because his kid is the best player, and after the coach tells him what to do, his dad yells onto the field to do something else. A whole season with that guy is going to test my ability to hold my tongue.

Honestly, I'm still not sure we'll make the whole season. The thought of JH getting hurt becomes more real to me, and the consequences of that... I don't think I could ever forgive myself.

But I also don't know if I could live with myself if Joe-Henry questioned HIMSELF if he quit. If quitting made him feel like a failure.

All I know is this: he's looking forward to practice tomorrow. So we'll go. One cleat in front of the other.

Foreigner

I promise I won't say anything about Steve Perry in this post. This isn't about classic 80's rock at it's finest.

This is about suddenly feeling like I'm wading ankle deep in unfamiliar waters just off foreign shores. How did I get here? I don't remember being on a boat or falling out of a plane, yet here I am nonetheless.

Almost everything about the familiar terra-firma of parenting Joe-Henry has suddenly changed. The texture, the sound, everything. Except for the food. Chicken nuggets are served and eaten here too, it appears. It's like the first time Charley and I went to Paris, and we had planned it and for the first couple days I had relished and celebrated: you know, vive la différence, and all that. But I remember how grateful I felt, after two long days of trying to communicate in a language not my own - where asking something as simple as "where is the bathroom" made me feel deep fatigue - spotting the Golden Arches on the Champs Elysee. I don't go to McDonald's here as a rule, but seeing it there? Felt like someone had thrown me a life vest to keep me afloat long enough to catch my breath.

So, yeah. Thank goodness there is still something I know about my son. Chicken nuggets.

It's not just the football either, although that does have a language all it's own. A language, I might add, that flows trippingly off his tongue. It's as though someone has implanted a chip during the night and suddenly he knows football stats and people and plays and stadiums and particular games, and.... Part of it is the Madden '09 game he got for the Wii, but some of it I swear he just absorbs out of the ether. And it's not as easily understood as Star Wars, either. At least with Star Wars there's some kind of mythical narrative that I respond to. With football, he might as well be speaking Farsi.

I just. don't. get it.

But it's like they say: a smile is the same in any language. The thing that does translate for me is this. He's enthusiastic. He's excited. I recognize those qualities. I don't recognize the testosterone-fueled screaming that seems to be part of this time. The sudden onslaught of spitting and using words like "freakin'": as in "that was freakin' AWESOME" (screamed, natch; and by the way, forbidden in our house - not just because it's a barely concealed substitute for a grown-up cussword, but because it's lazy)? These things leave me scratching my head and looking for my map.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Signed Joe-Henry up for some Pop Warner Flag football. He and I have been working on his spiral, and catching the football. Yes, you may picture that in your mind. JH in his helmet, and his chubby old mom out there doing drills with him. Charley does too, but I thought that visualization might be more entertaining for you. Sort of "America's Funniest Home Videos of the Mind".

With his kt, I am nervous about letting him play, but was assured by the gentleman at the sign-up that they aren't allowed to push, much less tackle. Still, the second item on the form we had to sign gave me pause:

2. INTENT TO INFORM
I acknowledge that I am fully aware of the potential dangers of participation in any sport and I fully understand that participation in
football, cheerleading and/or dance may result in SERIOUS INJURIES, PARALYSIS, PERMANANET DISABILITY AND/OR
DEATH*. Furthermore, I fully acknowledge and understand that protective equipment does not prevent all participant injuries, and
therefore I do hereby waive, release, absolve, indemnify, and agree to hold harmless the local, league and regional Pop Warner
organization(s), Pop Warner Little Scholars, Inc., and any and all organizers, sponsors, supervisors, participants, and persons transporting
the above named participant to and from activities, from any claim arising out of any injury to my/our child whether the result of
negligence or for any other cause.

*capitalization not mine

Even without this little tidbit, the decision to let him play has been an agonizing one. Even if he didn't have the syndrome he does, I would be an extra cautious mom, and if I could, I'd wrap him in bubble wrap every time he leaves the house. But that isn't going to do much for his confidence or his social life, both of which are very strong. As his parents, we always walk a fine line between choosing what's best for him physically and emotionally. I would never let him play tackle football (and I know that argument is coming, I'm gearing up for it), but I think a team sport would be great for this social kid who has no siblings. He also knows that there's a big responsibility on his end. He has to keep doing well in school, keep up with piano practice and his chores at home in order to continue.

The first thing he said after we signed up was "I wonder if I'll be on the cover of a magazine?" Hmmmmmm....

I think playing on a team will give him a better idea of the rigors and responsibility that are involved, and help him to realize it's about playing a game, and not being a "playah".

Back to Basics

You know that Monday Night Football song where they scream "Are you ready for some FOOTBALL?!" I always felt slightly pleased with myself, because for me the answer was always a quiet, self-satisfied "nope", and I felt so happy knowing that I didn't have to be ready for some football, because my husband, bless his heart, didn't watch it. Oh, he played it in highschool, but he's just not one of those sports guys. We go to baseball games sometimes, and occasionally we'd catch basketball on the tube, but thank God, we didn't live or die by what games we got to see on television.

When I was growing up, my dad and my brothers LOVED watching sports. And it used to scare the bejesus out of me, because they were SCREAMERS. They'd get so worked up, they'd yell and shout and I was just a delicate flower and it made me jumpy. I HATED it when sports were on. I'd retreat to the back bedroom and play "Cockles and Mussles" on my chord organ, or head downstairs to play Barbie dolls.

So imagine my surprise when our son started to like sports. He's this sensitive, artsy rocker kid, but last year my brother-in-law and nephew watched him while my sister and I hit the sales. On Super Bowl Sunday. That was it. He had to watch the rest of the game at home, and for the last couple months has been BEGGING me to get him some kind of a football jersey. Well, we did a little school shopping the other day, and I picked up a Seahawks jersey on sale. How was I to know they suck? I don't watch football. But the neighbor kid informed me, but then added, "it looks nice though!"

Today, JH and his daddy were out playing a little football, so I took out the camera. And it's weird, because even though it's not a ritual here, it felt like Autumn had arrived.