In honor of the Superbowl, I was invited to play flag football yesterday afternoon by a few of the guys at my church. I answered with a hearty “Yes!” and grabbed my old football cleats, a pair of sturdy pants and a dumpy long-sleeved t-shirtand headed out to the field where the grand battle was to be joined.
We ended up with a turnout of twelve 20- and 30-something guys and split into two teams of six. The battle was joined, flags were snatched, tackles were made in lieu of flag grabs, passes were picked off and a good time was had by all. Two hours and a lot of (extremely clean, this being a pseudo-church-related affair) smack talk later, we called it quits. I retreated to my car after congratulating the other guys on a game well-played and wended my way home, only to discover upon disembarking that my entire muscular and skeletal structures had apparently been planning a mass revolt and chose that opportune moment to spring it upon me. My body emphasized the following point: no longer can I nonchalantly stroll onto a field, run about in a manner befitting a young man in peak physical condition and escape vast and vile repercussions to my general health and well-being. I feebly hobbled into the house and collected wife, son and diaper bag and headed off to my parents’ house to watch The Game.
My father is a life-long Steelers’ fan, having grown up in western Pennsylvania, so he was extremely excited at the chance to see the Stillers back in the Superbowl. He’s also a bit excitable, especially when watching football and has been known to shout and jump around during particularly exciting and/or atrocious plays, a habit which I have at least partially inherited. We quickly learned that this proclivity combined with my son’s young age and the ease with which he is startled results in tears and general unhappiness on the part of Will. There were four or five instances where my father, unable to contain his joy, leapt to his feet, let loose with a whoop which almost immediately caused Will’s lower lip to shoot out, his eyes to fill with tears and wails of fear and incomprehension to ring forth from his little lungs. I am chagrined to say that, in at least two of the instances, causing my son to cry was a collaborative effort between myself and my father, each of us unable to contain our “football hollers”.
We enjoyed the game quite a bit and, perhaps since “our” team won, were a bit perplexed at the naysaying that appeared in the press on Monday. I say “our” because, I must admit that, although I was rooting for the Steelers, I am at heart a Vikings fan and have to own up to the fact that, in Week 15 of the regular season, I was rooting for the Vikings to beat the Steelers and thus make it to the playoffs, so my rooting for the Steelers, my traditional AFC “home team”, felt a bit tainted. In any event, we enjoyed the game thoroughly and really enjoyed spending time with my family. Plus, I count any time we can leave my parents’ house and avoid breaking something a net win. *grin*
Hooray for the Stillers!
I Am No Longer 18 And Other Observations Prompted By Superbowl Sunday
