A round the time he was age 2, that boy ran through the living room. He was toting a crayon in one hand, a dinosaur in the other, and for reasons the average mind would not understand, he completed the outfit with a pair of cowboy boots.
There was a football game on the TV at the time, and something about it caught the boy’s eye. It was a transformation in the making as he dropped the dinosaur, replaced it with a football and forever exchanged the cowboy boots for cleats.
The child had discovered his passion. From that day forward, the kid was never without a football, and he incessantly tossed it in the air. He also threw it at the couch and to every unwilling participant he perceived as a receiver.
Including his mom.
During the dinner hour, the child would sit on a stool a few feet from his father’s chair, wearing an oversized football helmet and a jersey. He threw the football to his dad, his father threw it back, and as the time passed, the throws became stronger.
Some passes were dead on, but some would hit the clock, the wall or — much to a mother’s dismay — miss altogether and bounce across the kitchen table, taking out the main course along with a gallon of milk.
Most folks would not understand why footballs had to be thrown at dinner, but sometimes it seems to be built into the DNA and — take it from one who knows — you can fight it, but you can’t beat it.
It isn’t long before the bulk of games are moved to the front lawn. It is out there the imagination really kicks in and the young man is his own quarterback, coach and referee. He runs up the makeshift field in his make-believe contests, races back down it and spins himself down to the ground for a 3-yard loss.
The luckiest of mothers get to look out the window to see a yard full of young men, playing the game with a passion — running in their socks, laughing as they go and debating the calls from the makeshift referees.
She watches as they grow from children who dream of participating in a real game to young men who play it under the Friday night lights with all they have.
As the anticipation builds for the beginning of a new football season, a small part of the seniors’ parents’ hearts face the season with dread, knowing it will be the last time their young men will practice and play against the schools they have played their whole lives.
They know that eventually the night will come when it will be these boys’ last real game. Some get a lump in their throat just thinking about it.
Parents watch as the team develops. Their sons’ team plays against size and talent with determination and a whole lot of heart. Their boys march out with pride, hold hands in the huddle, correct their mistakes and roll with the punches.
As parents, we watch that young man who used to play on our front lawn in gym shorts and socks play with heart. He carries the ball with determination and spirit, and sometimes lugs a few linemen on his back with him as he crosses the goal line.
These young men, who have become so dear to us, played their last official game under those lights last Friday night. They caught the ball, they drove up the field, and they made amazing plays and tackles that had the fans on their feet.
But when the contest was over, they came up short.
They congratulated the other team with class and then walked off the field. Men and boys at the same time, fighting back tears as some of them were about to take off the pads for the last time.
It is a cycle of life that breaks your heart and steals your breath. A tightness develops in your chest, and there is a lump in your throat that seems to never go away.
Sometimes the sadness lingers only until you look out the window and see that same group of young men playing football on the front lawn.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].