No Football For This Guy

My parents never allowed me to play football, much to the shagrin of myself and my uncle, who protested strongly and made every case for its ultimate benefit in my life. Every year, the arguments would begin anew with the additional evidence that I was then a year older than the last discussion. Yet, year after year, my parents displayed a unified front against the pigskin and I was never placed in pads.

At the time, it seemed as though both my mom and dad were conspiring against me, both with an eye toward ruining my entire childhood experience, or so I thought. I could not understand it. "Dad," I would plead internally, "what about the 'man code?' Why are you siding with a girl over me?" Albeit that girl was my mother and his wife. In my 8-year-old world of mutual exclusivity where boys ruled and girls drooled, I couldn't understand my father's treason. What did Cindy - my mother who lost that title of respect when she decided to start destroying my paternal alliances - have on him? What didn't I know? There had to be more to the story. My world was collapsing around me. If the "man code" was no longer applicable, what else wasn't true? Is my name really Trent? Am I even your son?! Do I even exist?!!

"We don't want you to get hurt."

And there it was: the eternal parent's response. I felt just like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when his parents deny him a Red Ryder BB Gun because they fear that he'll "shoot his eye out." What fatalists. That's a quitter's attitude. Yes, I could get hurt playing football, but I could also contract pneumonia and have my toes turn black and crash into the Andes Mountains and have the entire Argentinian Rugby team eat me, too. It's true. I read it. In a book. Look it up. Their reasoning was severely flawed, so I decided it was my job, no, it was my duty to set them straight. In that I was the smartest 8-year-old I knew, I decided to present them with reasoning so sound that nobody could deny it.

"No."

Well, they didn't have to be so brutal about it.

"We signed you up for soccer."

"Soccer? But I want to hit people."

Apparently, my motives weren't pure enough for them. Their move proved very wise because soccer became my life and I'm grateful they signed me up despite my protestations. As I grew older, it became clear that my dad wasn't a sworn enemy of football. He played football in high school. He loved football. He even snuck me out of church one Sunday per year just so I could watch the pre-game show for the Superbowl.

I wondered for years why my dad was against me playing football, but I think I've begun to understand now that I'm married: my mom was against me playing football. I'm sure my mom had serious reservations about my participation in football because she had seen too many injuries and didn't want me to get hurt. Understandable. I wonder if my dad wanted me to play, or at least was not opposed to it. Either way, one thing was clear: he loved my mom. He loved her enough to betray the "man code" he so cherished; he stuck by my mom unconditionally so that it wasn't my mom who appeared to be the bad guy.*

And that's the kind of person he was: unceasingly loyal. It was one of his greatest traits, even if it meant I never played football.

60DL12

*this conclusion is purely my opinion of events; none of this has been verified or corroborated by my mother, nor will it ever be because I refuse to fraternize with unreasonable opponents of brute violence and inflicted pain - who does she think she is to sabotage the "man code"?