The Football Pledge
A mother's promise to observe Purple Friday & other sporty things
by Carey Mednick, posted on August 4th, 2010 in The Sports Issue
‹ Previous Feature | The Sports Issue | Next Feature ›
The schedule has been announced. The anticipation is building.
The Baltimore Ravens’ public training camp at McDaniel College is around the corner. The excited chatter begins, “When are we going? How are we getting there? What jerseys should we take for the sweating, stinking monoliths to sign?” (OK, sweating, stinking monoliths is all me.)
The men (and a couple of women) in my family are buzzing … except in my house. My husband, Scott, and I are not, nor have we ever been [insert any sport here that requires a ball] fanatics.
While Scott’s brothers were inside watching football, he was oftentimes out in the garage with his father learning how to take apart a car engine. In my case, I have a sports chromosome missing; perhaps it’s skipped a generation. My aunt was an elementary school gym teacher for many years. Lanky and vocal, she resembled a slightly gentler Sue Sylvester from Glee. (What was strange was that she disliked kids except for my sisters and I whom she loved as her own.) But, a shadow of disappointment never failed to flicker across her face as I missed balls, swung golf clubs like a gorilla, or yawned at the mention of her beloved Washington Redskins. I suppose I take after her sister, my mother, whose sole athletic interest was scurrying around campus in a twin set, pencil skirt and heels in pursuit of frat boys.
My dad, who was one of the aforementioned frat boys, was a rabid fan of the Baltimore Colts. He would come home from every game completely hoarse from screaming at the crew-cut crew. In the 60s and 70s, many of the players owned restaurants which we ate at faithfully: Johnny Unitas’ Golden Arm, Ordell Braase’s Flaming Pit, Bill Pellington’s Iron Horse … all of them swanky, smoky man caves with black vinyl chairs, red leather menus, beef in every cut and size, and stiff whisky sours. So since food was involved, I should have at least liked football a little, but no such luck.
This year, I’ve decided to undo my decades of apathy. This year, I’ve vowed to become a Ravens fan. And, I’m bringing my husband along with me. We’re not doing this for ourselves (we have other important things to do on Sunday afternoons, like taking a nap) but for our 2-year-old son, Ian.
Here’s why: my sister, Laurie, and her husband, Stan, never particularly cared for football, and then my nephew, Danny, was born. Danny found football fascinating at a very young age and now, at 14 years old, lives and breathes it. Through years of watching games together, Laurie and Stan share in the thrill of victory, as well as the occasional agony of defeat, that Danny experiences. It’s something (amongst many other things) that brings them even closer together and they relish having a subjective view of what gives their child such joy. That’s the kind of connection (amongst many other connections) I want Scott and I to share with Ian.
So this is my pledge to my son. I will not let my eyes glaze over as your daddy explains to me how football is actually played. I will learn every Ravens’ player’s name and position. I will try to follow your cousins’ football discussions even though they sound like some foreign guy language. I will wear all purple on Fridays. I will care about whether or not they win. And, I will watch the Super Bowl for the game and not just the commercials.
Somewhere my aunt is waving a giant foam finger and smiling.
Jen Says:
Jennifer Cooper Says:
Mike (Dad) Griffin Says:
Have fun!
Carey Says:
