All three of my boys played football. They started out in a junior league, coached by dads in the community, much like Little League Baseball. As one would expect, attending all their games was a family requirement. If you caught that dash of sarcasm, let me explain. We are a family of mostly girls. Six to be exact, five of whom were bookended by boys, big and small, who loved football. It was hard for us to relate.
My husband was the guy standing by the fence, moving up and down the field with each play while I was that mom sitting in the car. Don’t get me wrong, I do care about supporting my sons. I was just trying to stay warm while listening intently for my kid’s name to be announced over the speakers. Something like, “Chris Robinson in on the tackle.” That was my cue to honk the horn and cheer. It’s no secret within my inner circles that the finer points of the game are totally lost on me. I can sum up the extent of my knowledge of football as: kill the kid with the ball before he gets to the end of the field. Nevertheless, I did pick up on something that, apparently, most parents sitting in the bleachers completely overlooked — the ambulance waiting beside me.
Once it occurred to me that I was sitting there waiting to hear my son’s name announced as “in on the tackle” while an ambulance waited on the sidelines to take my boy to the hospital because of said tackle. What’s wrong with this picture?
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