My husband loves football, and I don’t. I mean, I don’t really hate it or anything, I just don’t particularly notice or care in any way about its existence. Don’t feel bad for football; it doesn’t care about me either.
However, there is one thing I do know, and that is I hope my son will never play football with even the faintest whiff of any professional aspirations. As in, I intend to keep him away from football to the very best of my abilities. As in, maybe think about trying soccer instead? As in, over my dead body.
I don’t want him to play football. I don’t want him to think about playing football. I don’t even want him to say the word football without just a hint of “meh” in it.
Why, you ask? Surely, the teamwork, the sportsmanship, the camaraderie would all be valuable learning tools and the physical nature of the sport would build strength and character. And did I mention that there’s this thing that happens to your brain when it gets slammed against your skull over and over again? Did I also mention that you need your brain for other stuff, like living your life?
Why risk it?
(I also happen to think we should keep him out of flag football because I’m 20 percent sure that just leads to an appetite for regular football, which then leads to me crying all the time and losing all my hair from stress.)
And yes, I realize that you can get hurt playing other sports as well, and yes, I realize I’m being overprotective, among other words you could choose. BUT I DON’T CARE.
And anyway, aren’t I supposed to protect my child from things that want to charge at him with intent to hurt? Isn’t that my job? Yes, I’m actually 100 percent sure that it is my main, real-life job as his mother. Like, if an antelope charged at him, I would put myself in front of that antelope and fend it off, and I would tell him to run away from the antelope and then I would try to punch that antelope, or stab it, or however you protect yourself from random antelope attacks. It’s visceral, and it’s real, and if he ever does (for some godforsaken reason) hit the gridiron (against my explicit wishes), I am issuing fair warning that I am planning to run onto the field in my mom-jeans and get cray.
I get that he’ll probably play some type of sportsball game as he gets older, and yes I said “sportsball.” This is intended to communicate that I do not care in any way if my children play sports — like, at all.
I suppose I could get on board with a sport I just invented called “marshmallowball,” which is a bunch of people bouncing around on pillows and not conking each other in the head. Or “featherball,” which also sounds nice. Or chess.
And so this week in NYC, we have the football fever, to which I reply “meh.” So, it’s nice when it’s on TV, or when it comes in the shape of cookies and ice cream cakes. But if it ever comes for my child, it gets a great big N. O. P. E. from me.
And on Facebook because that’s where we sometimes hang with the cool chicks (and 6 dudes).