by J.C. Phillips 

My two oldest boys began playing tackle football this year and I have been, to put it mildly, ecstatic. Had they chosen something I have little passion for – say soccer – while I would still encourage them, I doubt I would currently be slipping down the slope into little league parent oblivion. 

Aside from the rather annoying certainty that their child is the most gifted on the field, my main complaint with sports parents is that rather than remain rooted in the tera firma of academic emancipation, they begin tip toeing in the celestial arena of athletic deliverance. The bar tends to drop as priorities shift. Excellence on the field is prized over excellence in the classroom. “B’s” are satisfactory when “A’s” had been previously been expected. Fathers encourage kids to watch game films rather than to read books. It is often a subtle compromise and it was one I thought I was guarded against. 

I began to suspect I might have slipped when my blood pressure rose during a scrimmage and my son, one of the better players on the team, didn’t start. I sensed things might be more serious when in my daydreams I began hearing the faint chords of the Notre Dame Victory march. Or was it “The Victors,” the song preferred by the Wolverines of Michigan? I had to pull over on the highway when I began humming out loud “fight on for ol ‘SC.!” There was no doubt I had crossed over when I loaded a screen saver of LaDainian Tomlinson on their computer.

I have always felt a special affinity for the end of summer. The smell of football is in the air. The symphony of the cadence of calisthenics and that first pop of plastic hitting plastic makes my heart beat a little faster. When I outfitted my sons in their first set of helmet and pads, it brought water to my eyes. Perhaps it was some atavistic response to my sons beginning a right of passage. Outfitted like bobble-headed gladiators, my boys are growing into warriors ready to do battle every Saturday morning. Listen as the coaches on the sidelines as they tell eight-year-old boys to “man up” and “stick with their man”. It is a time of celebration. We should dance, feast and tattoo our bodies!

I am of course not the only one. Hundreds of fathers in my area lined up and paid hundreds of dollars to submit their sons to grueling workouts in 90 degree heat, and to have other men yell at them. We are accused of trying to live our childhood fantasies through our children. Absolutely untrue! Yes, I showed them my team photo of the undefeated 1972 Holly ridge Eagles. This was, however, only to provide context. 

Of course, they are still little boys and kidding aside, my true hope is not that they become professional ball players, but that they grow to love the game as I do. That the smell of fresh cut grass invokes in them memories of fun and comradeship. Beyond that their mother and I will continue to demand the same academic performance we did prior to their donning the pads. Football will always be what they do after they have taken care of business. If the grades slip or they find they do not have time to maintain the level of quality work we are used to, they will not play and I will not think twice. 

Will I get excited at the sight of my sons displaying athleticism? Guilty as charged. And there is nothing wrong with a little harmless fantasy. Besides, in the end I might have the best of both worlds. After all, they play football at Princeton and the “Cannon Song” is immensely hummable.