The Solstice of Pigskin Pandemonium

A father and son trek through the odyssey of football season.

By Laurence Bass

“Oh, and your father got the Direct TV college football and NFL thingies,” my mother says with a despondent chuckle over the phone. She calls out to my dad to confirm the proper name of the all-in-one sports package. “Yeah, he finally got the NFL Sunday Ticket. So, you know…” The tone heard in that “you know” was her reluctantly waving the white handkerchief—surrendering to the solstice of pigskin pandemonium.

My mother is a statistic. She is one of the legions of significant others in love with someone caught in the eleven hour, six month long undertow of touchdowns, play-by-play analysis and one-sided dialogues with players who can’t hear their lamentations through the screen. My mother was able to gracefully compromise in the past. Chores were haphazardly done on Saturday morning so I could see the Fighting Irish battle the Conquering Hero, the Gators size up the Volunteers at Rocky Top and hear Keith Jackson’s “Whooooooa, Nelly!” open The Red River Shootout. Saturday evening mass at St. Bernadine’s were attended so my father and I could hear The Gospel of Favre According To Madden and Ray Lewis’ Letter To Eddie George and The Titans on Sunday. Now, with the onslaught pivotal matchups coming to my father in high-definition from all regions, both Lysol and the Lord may have to take a backseat.

On the other end of the spectrum, this will be my father’s first football season as a retired man. The spoils of a 56-inch flat screen television and all the football at his fingertips are for him after over 30 years of work. When I was growing up—before I even understood the hoopla over football—my father spent his weekends at John Hopkins’ library studying for the varying exams to become certified in the State of Maryland to inspect elevators, escalators and amusement rides. In addition to his education, he was an active participant in the education of my sister and me. My parents juggled everything from PTA meetings, CYO Basketball, 4-H mentorship, NSBE conferences and the spectrum of art workshops in which I was involved. Needless to say, weekends were hectic.

If you dug through the cache of VHS tapes in my parent’s basement, you’d find some of the game’s classic moments. Everything from Darryl Green’s heroic punt return against the Bears to Alabama’s trouncing of Gino Torretta and the Hurricanes in the Sugar Bowl are labeled with my mother’s handwriting. I can still hear him singing the Monday Night Football theme song, competing with Hank Williams III, culminating in a boisterous—“Are you ready for some football?” It’s one of the small joys of my youth that still echo in my mind days prior to kickoff. However, the sport did more than just entertain my father and me.

The ambiguity of adolescence often puts a stranglehold on the relationship between parent and child—my father and I were no different. He was trying to make me into a man while I took his insistence as nitpicking at my character. We argued over my style of dress, college preparation and, especially, that magnet for dirty clothes and clutter called my room. My mom was often the referee between her emotional husband and dramatic son. (If she had access to two yellow flags and whistle, dinner would’ve gone like this: There are two fouls on the play. Excessive Noise and Stubbornness—Husband—15-Yard Penalty! Whining About Generational Differences—Son—15-Yard Penalty! Both Penalties Offset. Replay Grace.) One of the few times both of us could sit in the same room with tension was during a game. The once hostile waters raging confined within our four walls were lulled to a calm on Saturdays and Sundays. Looking back on it, I don’t know why we could be so civil during the game and so angry at each other throughout the week—and that’s the beauty of it.

Tonight, Thursday September 3, 2009, marks the start of the college football season and the following Thursday ushers in the NFL season. Both leagues present intriguing storylines and big names on both sides of the ball to keep every fan glued to couch and in the stands. The only storyline my mother will be focused on is how to get my father to do all of his errands prior to kickoff.