Win one for the Gipper?

 

This will come as a big shock to many of you, but I am not an athlete.  I know!  I’ll give you a minute to process.  In fact, the closest I came to having an athletic career was my time as the statistician for my high school football team.  And that little foray into the wide world of sports was just because I was good at math and had a genuine appreciation for the art of the male form in a football uniform.  I did, however, have a great uncle who was a successful coach, and that fact coupled with the countless hours that I’ve spent seated in bleachers cheering on my offspring practically makes me an expert. 

Our current football season, it’s just not good.  At least not when you look at the stats and the record and, I’m guessing, the film on Monday morning.  Not. Good.  With that said, there is MUCH about the game of football that I don’t even pretend to know. I wouldn’t know a jet sweep from a flea-flicker (although I do love a good flea flicker).  When to throw the ball or when to call a running play.  And does ANYBODY really know exactly what “ineligible receiver downfield” means?!   I don’t even pretend to know what needs to change or how to fix all the things.  But I do know a thing or two about the players; it just so happens I have raised one with some measure of success.  And if ever given the opportunity to deliver the team-rallying half-time speech (somewhere Cooper is making the sign of the cross and thanking the heavens that this will NEVER happen), I’d climb up on that locker room bench, and this is exactly what I’d say. . .

Ouch.  That was ugly.  Like, REALLY bad.  But you already know that, don’t you?  I was just watching it.  You were the ones getting thumped up and down the field and scratching and clawing for every yard.  Losing stinks.  It’s just not fun, and it gets old.  Really, really old.  You don’t need me to point out what you already know, but you do need to hear me say this.  No matter the final score, you, Knights, you have already won.

What we don’t remind you of is the fact that out of your ENTIRE STUDENT BODY, you are the only ones who get to wear that uniform and represent your school out on that field.  That is an honor and privilege no matter your record; don’t forget that.  You are one of the handful of people in this entire world who know what it feels like when you run out of that tunnel, onto that field, under those lights.  That feeling.  That “there is nothing I cannot do” feeling that you have before you’ve even played a single down?  Don’t ever forget that feeling; it is precious and rare. 

Those Heisman Wannabes with the dad bods up in the stands have forgotten that the view from field level is a lot different from their cushioned stadium chair vantage points.  Reality is that they had to buy a ticket to get in and would need IV fluids after one practice, oxygen after one down, and a hip replacement after one good hit.  What sounds like spirit-crushing criticism is really just super-frustrated love because they know how incredible you are and just wish that everybody else had the opportunity to see it too.  You keep your chin up and tune out the noise. This is your time; they’ve had theirs.  Listen to the voice inside of you.  Play the game for your school, your brothers, and yourself. 

Does your coach screw up?  ABSOLUTELY.  A lot. Show me a grown-up who doesn’t.  But he also shows up.  For you. A lot.  I certainly wouldn’t want an entourage to follow me around at work and publicly shame me in front of my peers and subordinates every time I made the wrong call.  We as parents spend your entire childhood reminding you to be respectful.  We should probably take a page from our own playbook, and save a bit more of our ESPN level commentary for the car ride home. 

Now I’m running out of time here, so one last thing, we’ve not been honest with you.  We’ve told you that “these are the best days of your life”.  They’re not.  Don’t get me wrong, these are AWESOME days.  But the BEST ones?  Those will come later, when you’re sitting in the stands watching your heart out on that field.  These?  These are the learning days.  These are the days when you realize that the numbers on that scoreboard mean nothing (even when they are in your favor) if your character is lacking.  How quickly your knee hits the field when a player, any player, is injured.  How you watch your language around the cheerleaders because they are young ladies.  How you offer your hand to help an opposing player up.  How you seek out your friends on Monday morning and thank them for dressing up like Goodwill cowboys and showing up, for you, Friday night after Friday night.  How you build up a teammate who just botched a big play.  How you show up for practice, early and late and hurt and tired and when you just really don’t want to.  How you respect your teacher in the classroom and your parents at home.  How you’re humbled by the National Anthem and the sacrifices that you’ll never fully understand.  How you feel pride every time you pull that jersey over your head because you know that representing your school is a privilege.  How you admit when you are wrong and recognize that you have much still to learn. How you thank the band for their energy and the trainers for their support.  How you leave everything you’ve got on that field because that’s what you signed up to do and you know that commitments are important.  That.  All of that. Those things.  That is how I know that you’ve already won.

Look around you. This team.  It’s yours.  These are your brothers. And this moment, it’s fleeting.  Play for each other.  Have fun.  Soak it in.  Dance it out.  Shake it off.  This is your time.  The haters?  They’re just jealous.

Now, stand up straight and fix your face.  Dig deep and find some energy.  You look like a bunch of saggy shouldered quitters.  Not everybody gets a trophy and right now you look like you don’t even want one.  There is football left to be played.   Play to win.  Don’t accept defeat until the very last second ticks off.  Go out there and hit somebody.  And after you hit him, go up in the stands and hit his mama.  DANCING is a contact sport; football, well, it’s a hitting sport. 

And then, after it’s all said and done, when they’ve wiped those red numbers off of that scoreboard, stop on the way to the bus and hug my neck because, my precious boys, I’m so damn proud of you.