Is there life beyond football?

Is there life beyond football?


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SALT LAKE CITY — My youngest son is thinking about forgoing his senior season of high school football.

I choose to say “thinking about” because putting it in that way leaves room for maneuvering around a little. I am officially in denial and I refuse to admit that he has come right out and said that he is quitting.

Ihoma, as I've nicknamed him, has been playing for eight years with the same stinky boys in the same stinky blue and white uniforms. (I always thought that they should have camo uniforms because even when their pass defense shows up, one never really sees them.)

My son told his mother he wasn’t going to play. Yes, you read that right. He told his mother, because he knew that she would inform me when I was at church, in the car on our way to Idaho, or on the operating table — somewhere he knew I wouldn’t be able to freak out on him.

Smart boy.

I have looked forward to getting the good seats in the stadium this year — the ones reserved for veteran parents of the "boys of spring, summer and fall" (they start a lot earlier these days).

I have paid hundreds of dollars for sweatshirts, discount cards, color programs, football girdles, Nike socks — the royal blue ones with the white hyphen stripes up the back — football camps and protein powders.

Gatorade. I should have bought stock in Gatorade … and alcohol-based spray cologne. Now it may be too late.

#poll

I have really liked telling the other guys at church that I may be a pushover, but my son plays football.

I have secretly enjoyed having to soap and hose-down his pads, hanging them in a tree to keep them away from raccoons and rabid dogs.

I have been satisfied to share date night at the stadium with a thousand high school kids and their phones.

Mostly, however, I don’t want Ihoma to come home from an LDS mission and tell us that he wishes we had encouraged him to not quit his high school senior season of football. (I am not just making that scenario up. His older brother did just that and today wishes he had persisted.)

But how does one force a man-child to play football? To do so, I would have to go with him to his practices with a proverbial gun to his actual head. I would have to spot him during weight lifting and withhold his dinner until he memorized one more play.

Should I insist that he hit the turf just because I know he is going to regret quitting — like I regret not sticking with piano? How can I know I am encouraging him to keep it up for the right reason?

You are thinking that I am a stage parent, but I have never yelled "Sing out, Louise!" in my life. I have never played football, nor was I ever interested. Other than supporting my alma mater and my favorite college team members who have gone on to the pros, I am not a team-color-wearing, hat-sporting fan.

My favorite thing about watching football is my kid and guacamole. Frankly, if my son had come up to me eight years ago and said he wanted to audition for "Phantom of the Opera," I would have been more enthused.

There may be some of my identity that is based on my sons playing football. His mother and I have been going to games and practices for almost a decade now. We know all the football moms and dads. We know all the kids and the coaches, which boy has pulled what muscle, and which cheerleaders are going to biff a back handspring.


I want him to be able to say, "I played right up to the end" — and I don't want him to get into the habit of quitting. ... Easy for me to say. I don't have to lift weights year-round; miss Boy Scouts and church activities, family reunions and vacations because I have to practice.

But there is more than my personal feelings toward Ihoma's football playing. I want him to finish something. I want him to be successful at something. I want him to be able to say, “I played right up to the end" — and I don’t want him to get into the habit of quitting.

Easy for me to say. I don’t have to lift weights year-round; miss Boy Scouts and church activities, family reunions and vacations because I have to practice; or dedicate three-plus hours a day, everyday except Sunday, for half the year to the sport.

I don’t come home dehydrated, gulp ibuprofen and have to adjust my eating to gain the most weight possible. I would have quit that as soon as — well, I never would have started.

So, maybe Ihoma’s IQ has just now kicked in and he has come to realize how nuts he has been. Maybe he plans on picking up the piano, or playing tennis ... or studying.

Maybe it will all work out for the best, and in 20 years we will sit at an awards banquet in Oslo where they will celebrate Ihoma and his winning the Pulitzer Prize for either a cure to hair loss or extreme dentistry.

We will be surrounded by all his colleagues from Mensa, who will read this petty column written in the spring of 2013 and laugh smugly.

Let them laugh — just as long as Ihoma doesn’t wish he had a football trophy to place next to his Pulitzer Prize.


*

About the Author: Davison Cheney --------------------------------

*Davison Cheney writes "The Prodigal Dad" series every week on ksl.com. See his other writings at davisoncheneymegadad.blogspot.com.**

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