The football year has been exciting! Don't get me wrong, here. I have not suddenly turned into some flag-toting, horn-honking, moronic sports fan having overnight completely lost my sense of decorum and disdain of idiocy. No, I simply have a son of whom I am VERY proud. And he likes football. And he plays football. In fact, he plays organized football for a team called the Oak Bay Vikings, atom division. And he's goooooooood! (Proud father notwithstanding)
Rory and I like to play catch and run plays on the grassy areas surrounding our home here at U-Vic Family Housing. He's actually duly impressed with his boring and intellectual old man's dexterity with the ball and I have been affording him the limited knowledge I have to supplement his training. There's never enough time and we don't get out to play or practice enough. Cat's in the Cradle, I guess.
This year during one of his games, Marianne and I had an ironic conversation by the sidelines. We were only loosely paying attention to the game as we had several other kids to attend to in the neighbouring park, but on the few occasions that Rory got some action, we paused to pay attention. In our ambivalent viewing I took a moment to scan about at the motley crew of parents that represent football sons. My normal gag reaction to such people kicked in as I listened to verbally illiterate comments spewed at the top of their lungs from the sidelines at children who couldn't hear and coaches who didn't care. I am usually a man of overwhelming disdain, but sports fans as parents is a mix with which I seem to take particular issue. I commented to Marianne that nothing irritates me more than boorish and loud sports parents who are living vicariously through their children and I idly strolled towards the field sideline. Then it happened.
The moment every proud father awaits, even if he has a disdain for sports. The ball went up in a perfect arc. The quarterback had thrown a genuinely good pass. Rory was in the clear and ahead of the crowd. Surely it was a touchdown pass. With the defense only steps behind him and running full tilt, he stretched out his arms as the ball descended perfectly towards him. It was glorious. A lifetime of athletic dreams that I never had flashed before my eyes. Visions of our practicing in the field flooded my memory. Fantasies of him thanking me on Father's Day for all my training that turned him into a football star abounded. And all in the instant before the ball reached its goal. Time slowed. Rory's fingers reached out and I felt myself let loose an earth-shattering cheer while my arms raised in ecstatic triumph . . . but only too soon. The ball bounced gently, ever so lightly off his finger tips and to the ground in a definitively incomplete pass. The noise I was emitting didn't stop but turned from cheer to wail. I dropped to my knees. My raised hands fell to my eyes to cover and shield them from the horror.
"Nooooooooooooo!"
"Ahem." Marianne got my attention and I came to my senses. It seems my negative feelings had been projected into many of the other parents there who were all staring at me in awe, and disdain, and I think a little fear. I composed and excused myself and laughed at my own ironic fatherly egocentrism and hypocrisy. Rory later told me that he heard me from the field and had to explain to his team-members that his Dad was a little weird. I vowed I would not do that again.
But our best laid plans oft gang aglay and every player has a chance to redeem themselves. The final game of the season is one I had promised Rory I would not fail to attend. It was truly an exciting and well-matched game which came down to the final seconds of play to decide its outcome. Rory's team lost, but only by an excitingly slim margin. Once again, Rory played well. And it happened again, but even better.
The opposing team had the ball. The quarterback made the last second decision to go with a passing play. The ball was up and heading straight for the player against whom Rory was defending. But wait a minute, . . . wait a minute! The quarterback has misjudged. So has the receiver. Rory swoops in. I can see it coming but desperately keep silent. Then Rory cuts quickly to one side in front of the receiver and smoothly intercepts the ball. Oh my god! Perfect catch! Picked Off! It was glorious. I contained myself no longer, and as Rory bounded down the field I leapt from my lawnchair and hollered praise at the top of my lungs. So much for discretion and decorum. That was AWESOME Rory! Good job.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
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