Football season is here, which means that for the next few weeks, 90% of the US male population will play games (Friday = high school, Saturday = college, Sunday and Monday = professional), and of course all the days of the week will be moaning,
moaning or bragging about your Fantasy League, uh, excuse me, in most cases, do that Fantasy Leagues… because you can’t seem to join just one.
Now, I grew up in a female-dominated household: 3 women (mom, me and my sister) and one man (dad, unless you count the dog… but I tended to be loyal to the person with the food in hand). , and I have to admit, we tended to make dad as miserable as possible by his “obsession” with football. We complained and complained every time he tried to watch a game and sooner or later he would give up and let us watch “girl stuff”.
My first husband was never a huge sports fan, so for most of my adulthood, my exposure to soccer was minimal, but fast forward a few decades: new husband, new life…new lifestyle.
And suddenly I find myself in the middle of a VERY sports-oriented family, with a particular emphasis on soccer. So, for the first time in my life, I found myself attending high school games on Friday nights, rooting for my stepson as he ran up and down the field, yelling at the refs even though I wasn’t always sure WHY. WHAT was he yelling. but hey! you let yourself be caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment.
For 3 years, I never missed a game, in the rain and snow, I bundled up and cheered for the team, sometimes to victory and sometimes to defeat. I grew to understand the game and I enjoyed being a fan more with each game. I cheered as the team came to the home team after each win and sang their fight song, enduring long, easy rides home when they lost.
But, I never really understood the “obsession” until my stepson’s last game in high school.
The game was over, the weather was cold and drizzling, the song was over, and the seniors returned to the field for the last time, helmets in hand. They stood there, silent, exchanging hugs and pats on the back, and one by one, they knelt and looked around, while the lights flickered around the stadium.
The silence was deafening and the emotion overwhelming.
Most of these boys had played soccer together since the age of 9, practicing and playing as a team for long months each year, sharing bumps and bruises and injuries, big wins and bigger losses, developing a camaraderie few women ever experience.
And now, suddenly, it’s over. Most of the guys would never put on the pads and uniform again, never be part of that team spirit again. If you play baseball, you can play it in some form for the rest of your life, but football ended for most men with that last Friday night game in high school.
And so the obsession with all things soccer is born: it’s an ongoing search to recapture even a small part of that high school team experience, the closeness, the camaraderie that made all the work worth it.
In just a few brief moments that night, I suddenly understood the yawning chasm left in the lives of these young people, the sudden emptiness in their hearts, and I felt sadness for a loss I could never really comprehend.
My stepson got lucky – he plays college baseball on Saturday now, so the “last game” was a bit delayed. I still don’t share the same enthusiasm for weekend soccer marathons as my husband and his two sons, but at least it’s easier for me to understand his passion/obsession, and that goes a long way to a lazy weekend and happy at home.
Of course, having more than one TV has also helped…