The Football Uniform

[Sammyswordsman]

I try to post this every year for the parents of Seniors and Seniors to be next year.  It's been around the Servite program (and most likely a few others) for many years.

It may resonate with a few of you and/or your wives.  Even though we enjoy debating the merits of our respective teams and regions, we all know that the game is for the young men who practice and dedicate themselves to the season.

 

The Football Uniform

By:  Mom

 

For Four long years I've washed this uniform, and goodness what a chore!

     I've seen the grass, the blood and dirt, the stains and grime galore.

 

I've held it very gingerly, plugged my nose and thrown it in,

While thinking, "oh gosh, next week I've got to do this all again."

 

I've opened all the windows and I've squirted on the "Shout".

I've breathed the fumes a thousand times, of that I have no doubt.

 

I've spendt a fortune on detergent, and of all the time I've spent I shudder.

For Four long years, I've washed this uniform and harped and complained and muttered.

 

Today, I wash this uniform for almost the last time.

And after all these years of drudgery you know, I didn't see dirt and grime.

 

I saw the young man who wears it with pride and dignity.

Suddenly, that football uniform looked beautiful to me.

 

I saw the hard work and dedication that my young man put in.

For a chance to wear this uniform, play the game and win.

 

I saw the excitement of the game, the celebration at it's end.

I saw the team spirit , the support of the coaches, and sometimes disappointed young men.

 

I saw the character and good friends that this uniform helped to grow.

And the young man who wears it is very special to me, you know.

 

If I had one wish that could be granted, the one that I'd adore,

Would be to wash this Uniform for Four years more.

[Sammyswordsman]

This is the companion piece for the Dads.

THE TACKLE FOOTBALL PLAYER

"As the last uniform slowly makes its way off the field, my eyes are drawn, as are everyone else's, to the lonely procession of heartbroken young men making their way to their last locker room. However, my thoughts are focused on a different scene, far away both in time and place.

Was it really nine years ago that the ecstatic  little boy came rushing home with a huge smile on his face wearing his first "tackle football" uniform? (And it was always "tackle football," to distinguish it from that faintly effeminate version that his rivals down the street played in short pants and flags.) For years it had been soccer, which he had played with an unrestrained enthusiasm and a promptly forgotten final score. But now, it seemed, he had understood it was time to move on to that somehow more serious game that his father and uncles crowded around the TV set to watch on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. In his own mind, distantly, he had known it was time to graduate from short pants and participate in the right of passage whose significance he only vaguely understood.

I don't know how some kids realize this, that there's a certain activity appropriate to a certain time of life. Although we both recognized it was only a game, I knew - and he slowly realized - that there were lessons to be learned from this particular game that could not be duplicated in any other sport or even childhood itself. You can love a child, and you can get him everything you can possibly give. But there are certain arduous realities that have to be learned. And certain ones are learned only by experience: the necessity of hard work, the importance of effort, the sanctity of loyalty, and the primacy of courage. This game once helped me learn those lessons, and the little boy somehow recognized his path.

The little soccer player quickly became the "tackle football player." As the years passed, the complaints about the "mean" coaches diminished, the tears flowed less often, the bruises became larger but less frequently discussed, and the clanging of the weights in the garage grew more frequent. The practices grew longer, more frequent, and more intense. The little boy was slowly learning what it means to become a man.

And as he grew up, perhaps inevitably, we grew apart, and this game sometimes became the currency of our relationship. I was not always the father I should have been and, truthfully, he was not always the son he could have been. After a certain age, trips to "31 Flavors" or to the movies cannot paper over the inevitable strains that occur between two overly strong-willed males. But we always had The Game. Even when the strain was reaching the breaking point, we could sit in the same room and watch this game being played by strangers we would never meet. Unconsciously offered comments like "Nice hit" or "Lousy call" would evolve to "What would you call here?" And eventually to "So what is it you're all upset about?"

It was never my intention to use this game as a surrogate for being a father, but sometimes it seemed that way. Becoming a man means growing up and inevitably growing away from your childhood and its relationship with your father. I could not, I discovered, teach my son everything that he needed to learn after all. Maybe that's the way it is with all fathers. I did what I thought was my best to instill values and hope, tempered by the understanding that your best is sometimes not good enough. Like tonight.

An era has ended with tonight's final gun, I know. I am and will forever be his father, of course. But the time has passed when we will discuss the events of the day's practice, anticipate the upcoming game, and how to improve on this facet or that. The mutual hopes and fears of this imaginary world we shared will vanish before the reality of his life ahead. A common bond that has held us for nine years has ended tonight. In a few months (no more than a blink, really) it will be high school graduation, and then away to college where he will learn the remainder of the lessons that will carry him throughout life. And starting tonight I will be observing from afar, a participant no longer.

Did I do it right? Did I prepare this young man for what lies ahead? Did he learn the lessons every good man must learn?

And as that last figure disappears into the locker room, I watch the door close for the last time. But that's not what I see. It's the image of the overjoyed little boy and his first uniform with the smile his father will never forget. It's time to head home to a house that will forever seem a little more empty. The tackle football player has left the field.

Vaya con dios, young man."