Oh my goodness - it's fall. I LOVE fall. I grew up in the Midwest with my parents and two brothers – while growing up fall meant the sound of football games on TV and the smell of chili. It meant Friday night high school games, Saturday swim meets, apple-picking and Halloween parties. I just simply LOVE fall! And I LOVE football… or I did. Because that love unfortunately passed on to my sons, and now, I might be starting to HATE football!!!
I was so excited when my now 8 year old started to play flag football out in Pennsylvania two years ago. My little football player, diving around the grass after the flag, loving every second and having fun. Last year I was even more excited to get him involved in "real" football- pads, tackling and all. I was a little hesitant, he was only 7 after all, but I read the rule book, talked to other parents and thought, hey, this should be okay! And so we entered life in (cue sound effects) ….. Pop Warner.
Oh Pop, whoever you are, WHAT DID YOU DO? Last year, a single mother, my ex-husband having moved back to the Midwest from Pennsylvania, my now husband traveling back and forth on weekends to see his children in the Midwest, I was handed a 75 page playbook on the day of my 7 year old son's first football practice. WTH? This kid was in first grade - he could barely read a 10 page book much less a 75 page playbook! And yes – I know I said I love football – but that means I love watching football. I love eating nachos. I love the cute fan gear and drinking beer and hanging out with friends. I had no idea what the refs were doing, what kind of plays were being called, and, outside of the quarterback, I had no clue what football "positions" even existed. Now I found myself the keeper of the plays, trying to teach my son, who really just loved the idea of football himself at this time, the intricacies of the game. And then I was TESTED on it. Yes - a TEST from the coach, two weeks into the hell of the daily, 2 hour practices that made up the month of August. (Technically this test was meant for my son, but as we just discussed his beginning reading abilities, in reality it was meant for me). Let’s just say I didn’t get my score back, but it was probably the first test I’d failed since freshmen year algebra in college (I hate math as much as I loved football, FYI).
When we moved back to the Chicago area in July, I repressed my shudders of fear and loathing of Mr. Pop Warner and signed my son right back up for his local team. He was now 8, only in 2nd grade because of a late summer birthday, but he was a big 8. Strong, athletic, still as much in love with football as he was on the day of his birth (his dad was a football player - I think this stuff is just innate). The coach called me to let me know that, since they couldn’t have “real” practices until August, they were going to be meeting at a gym in the area on Friday nights for the kids to “condition.”
Aww, that’s nice, I thought. Getting the boys together to meet each other and play on Friday nights. That’ll be great for my little H – he can get to know some new kids in the area.
I’m slightly ashamed to admit that I really am that naïve. Because these Friday night “conditioning sessions” were NOT PLAYDATES. These were intense, well, conditioning sessions! For 8 year olds! I’m talking pull ups, sit ups, pushups, hell there were even SLEDS involved. This was some serious cross fit shit people! And as much as I love a good sweat session, I don’t even torture myself with that craziness!
Still, I refused to listen to that little voice in my head. My lovely husband, who has a lot more common sense than me, begged for me to reconsider flag football again. “Remember how much fun H had, he actually got to touch the ball! This Pop Warner stuff is like the NFL, and as he youngest kid on the team, he’s barely involved in the plays. He’s going to end up hating football!”
“No, no no,” I resisted. “This will be different. I told the coach how crazy the Philly team was. He understands. This won’t be as intense.”
“Linds, the man just told me they do TWO a day practices in August, every day! They don’t huddle. Do you know what that means? That’s what Peyton Manning does – not what a group of attention span-impaired 8 year olds do. This guy is serious – this is going to be worse than last year. For God’s sake, look around. There is not one person here who is NOT wearing a Bears shirt of some kind! This is football country! Please consider flag!”
And guess what happened? As usual, I won (in case you can’t tell, I mostly win because I’m stubborn and hard-headed and in general I fail to listen to reasoning, but that’s the subject of a different “Let’s Discuss” blog). On August 1st H started his, gulp, 2 a day practices and his summer ended. I hadn’t thought of how the practices would affect visiting dad during his final summer month (in fairness, either had dad, because he does play a decision making role in the kids’ lives). We juggled trips to dad’s with practices, I earned the constant disapproval from the coach for my lack of commitment and yet my son still made the elite team. And school started, and Pop, in his general kindliness and consideration, ordained that the children should only practice for 2 hours a night THREE days a week during school. And I found myself exhausted, running back and forth to practices, incorporating homework and showers and time with our families. I found myself making homemade cookies for bake sale fundraisers, and volunteering for water bottle duty. I found myself fighting with poor H, who was losing the joy of football from the strain of going every day and playing a minor role in a game he so loved. And I thought, next year, we are doing flag. So sorry Pops, but you and I are cutting ties.
And then…. We get an email. My son’s team, 5 and 0 this season, light years ahead of their opponents in general skill and athleticism, has been invited to Mr. Warner’s Regional competition as the leading team in the area!!! My heart jumps, I’m so proud, I’m planning my outfit (adorable little bee sweatshirt)… H is a football champion, a prodigy, the first NFL player in our family!!! I LOVE POP WARNER!!! I tell H, who is seriously ecstatic. He also plans his outfit (the kid is a little OCD on his matching gear – more in love with the idea of looking like a football player than actually hitting kids at this point). He’s happy, we’re happy – and we all sit down for a steak dinner, infusing our little man with protein in preparation for the up-coming big game.
That night I tuck my sweet little H into bed, kiss his precious 8 year face and ruffle his feathery soft hair on his little 8 year old head. “I’m proud of you buddy,” I whisper. He grins, and then I watch it fade. “Mom?” he says.
“Yeah bud?”
“I was watching the big kids at L’s (younger son) flag football game on Sunday. I was really good when I played that right?”
“You were great H – totally fearless,” I agree.
“Do you think, um, maybe, would you guys be proud of me if I just played flag next year instead of on the Swarm? These guys are kind of crazy.”
My NFL dreams come crashing down and I laugh, grounded once again. Out of the mouths of babes. Oh thank you God for the sweet intelligence of our children.
“Of course we would H. We’re proud of you no matter what.”
“It’s kind of good for you too, Mom,” he says.
I’m a little surprised. So he’s growing up, he sees the hardship on us too, I think.
“Yeah,” says H. “I don’t think flag football has any bake sales, and I didn’t want to tell you but your cookies aren’t very good. Nobody really buys them.”
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