Watching the Ball.

A wall of yellow jerseys and black shorts. Cleats on feet too big for the awkward limbs they anchor planted firmly in the dirt. Faces hidden deep beneath helmets and visors. Voices deep and gruff, mouth guards in place. 

And each one reassigning parts supposedly frozen in place by uncomfortably tight spandex. In perfect unison.

Long before my son was born, my husband was already plotting my conversion from hockey-loving Canadian to female football fanatic. Not that he was the first – I sat through more college and professional games for college boyfriends than I care to remember. I even spent a little time with somebody who actually played college ball and even that didn’t dial me in.

To be fair, my husband wasn’t the only one with an agenda for change. The terms of our marriage included an agreement that he would grow to love hockey. That it involved beer, chasing a fast-moving object and grown men alternating between finesse and brute force guaranteed his commitment. He wasn’t devastated when the NHL added ice girls, either.

I chose ice over grass by accident. Sports weren’t present during my childhood – my father had other interests and neither brother played. I remember my Dad showing me how to throw a football, but it wasn’t until high school that I learned what sports meant. I spent my high school years at boarding school, where I excelled in my ability to get caught breaking the rules and, when forced to or on a whim, my grades. It was there that I was hit with the puck (and not just figuratively). But it was rugby and soccer, not football, that dominated the grassy fields. For my husband, a world away, grassy fields were home to the boys of fall.

The first football he brought home was small and I would watch as they would race around the couch during halftimes and commercials, a missile tucked underneath a tiny arm. And then another football and subtle comments about clubs and coaching.

Sitting here on the sidelines under the Friday night lights, I have to admit there is something about football. It’s not the polished professionals. It’s not grown men yelling at little boys as though the Superbowl is on the line. It’s definitely not the endless fundraisers and snack commitments. It’s not strapping on shoulder pads and snapping on helmets. And fall football in Arizona is like playing overtime in the devil’s kitchen, so I assure you that it isn’t the opportunity to redraw my tan lines from the sidelines. 

It’s the light in his eyes when he knows it was a great play and the bubbles bath he asks for because his legs are sore. It’s watching him discover something new, about the world and about himself. It’s the boy who, like his father, tries to rub his sweaty head on me. It’s the boy who wants ice cream after practice and French toast on game day. It’s the boy who wants to start every practice throwing a ball. 

With me.