Hike!

It is like waiting on the other side of a busy street for the boys to cross, to come to me. Looking left and right, frantically waiting for them to negotiate the speed and distance of oncoming traffic, to run, walk or wait. I am straining to see them through the crowd, never really watching the game itself only searching for their jersey numbers. I often yell out and wring my hands. I jump up and shout before I know I have left my chair.

"Hit someone!" the mother next to me shouts. These are words I will not utter at these grueling tackle football games.

"C'mon boys get them! Knock someone down!" another direction from parents near me.

I would shout, "Wait, wait, wait! Do you know long I labored with him? Do you know how big he was?" Or more importantly, "Time out! Spare his brain. He is so smart and sweet and kind."

But I don't. I yell, "Ooh! Uh! Ok, ok, ok," more for me than them.

I watch the bottom of each pile to see if it is one of my sons. If a coach runs down field to help an injured player I pray until I see them both stand.

I don't love this game. I love that they feel a part of a team: an important piece to something bigger than them. There is an appreciation for the mentoring there for one who is a "young heavy" and otherwise quiet and shy. The teenager who was once the young heavy is now the leader and rolemodel for those on his team. He carries himself differently when wearing his jersey. There is an acceptance that this is just another testerone laden activity I will never completely understand.

When this time of practice, games, laundry and worry over every ache and bruise is over, I know there will be an emptiness each fall. A place that is not filled by this football family of players and parents who have embraced my children in a way I was not prepared for. The name on the back of their jerseys represent what they do on the field and off. They have an audience of adults and peers that expect a lot and that has made me proud.

But cannot keep me in my seat. Or my hands still.