As I was about to wax philosophical about the events of my weekend, another idea for an entry intruded. But, for those who get vicarious thrills from my tiny little life, here are some highlights to feed your insatiable curiosity before I expound on today's topic:
I partied on Friday night with a bunch of out of town friends of friends. It was the yearly big pot of jambalaya gathering before the first high school football game. We had our choice of spicy or not so spicy. Beforehand, I filled up on pitted kalamata olives, chunks of cheese and table water crackers sitting out on the big ol' porch, so I couldn't eat my usual training table bowl. But my efforts to empty the pot did not go unnoticed. However, the cheesecake dessert was out of the question.
Turns out there was no football game because of the "inclement" weather that went through here like bitch out of Midol. The Friday contest was rescheduled for Saturday on artificial turf because all the natural grass fields were submerged after the storm. You may have seen us on the news. How did we look in rubber boots pumping out our basements?
For some stupid reason, I got into a big discussion about the legal drinking age in Illinois -- how it was lowered in the seventies and then raised again. I was married in those days and didn't get the memo. I had no idea this age change went on, so like most people who think the world revolves around themselves, I said it didn't happen. But Google laughed at me last night when I got home. Quelle embarrassment.
Saturday morning I joined the hoards who were huddled at the laundromat drying out their rugs. Then I met one of my brothers and my stepmom at a Japanese restaurant for tempura and a tasty, rice free crab roll that was wrapped in cucumbers instead of seaweed and served with rice wine vinegar instead of soy sauce. More about my brother later. That cucumber roll was a nice, light alternative to my usual sushi pigfest.
After a previous week of horrid weather, Saturday was bright, sunny, and seventy-five degrees. Perfect for a non-conference high school football game. Replete with tailgate food and shooting video of the game.
NFL Films usually has three cameras on a ballgame -- the up close and personal shots on the field, the 50 yard shots from upstairs and someone who gets all the details -- the fat, painted people in the crowd, the injured and/or dejected players on the bench, the refs, the irritated coaches, stuff like that.
In our little group at SMF Video [Suburban Moms Football pronounced SMURF], we have often had four cameras on our games in the past. Yesterday, because one of our shooters is getting married, and another one doesn't have a kid on the team anymore, we only had two. I was up at the top of the stands on the 50 yard line. Thanks in part to the restraining order that keeps me 100 yards from all men in uniform.
After a play ended, I didn't stop shooting until the announcer told us who did what to whom. Kids like to hear their names called. I also shot [videoed, in case you're worried] the referee giving the signals for penalties. You never know when this stuff will come in handy when you're doing an edit. I also try to get shots of the boys with their helmets off so their moms know that's really their kid wearing that jersey.
My friends' son, the tailback, had on a pair of brand spanking new black turf shoes, tricked out with a shiny white trim and white laces. He racked up about eighty yards on the first series, but suddenly took himself out of the game at one point, limping. He wasn't injured. The new shoes hurt his feet. Haaa. So much for stylin'.
My favorite play of the game was a punt return. One of the players on the team is the last of four brothers who played for the high school Their dad was an All-America from Purdue, a running back who set some high school records of his own. His last son, the runt of the litter, wears his number. This kid is solid muscle. With his head shaved he looks like a miniature version of one of the brothers in Prison Break. He's listed at 5'8", but he's 5'6" at most.
I've watched him play offense, defense, and special teams for four years. He's got great moves and wonderful speed. But despite his quickness and agility, I've never seen him break one for a touchdown. Not on a kick off, not on a punt return, and not on an interception. He's so small that when he gets into traffic he can't get out. Everybody I talked to was worried that his lack of size would be a liability this year.
Not that anyone could tell yesterday. He took a punt on the fifteen yard line and ran 85 yards into the end zone. I haven't had a chance to review the footage, but somebody must have made a great block for him early on. I also figured he's heard the naysayers and he is on a mission to prove everybody wrong.
I also think it helps that the Chicago Bears have a tiny little guy who tied the NFL season record for punt and kick off returns last year. Big Bad Brian Urlacher might be a roll model for every overweight kid who harbors dreams of playing in the NFL. But Devon Hester is the go-to guy for the little players who have dreams too. Although Mike Ditka would probably say people with those dreams have exactly two chances -- slim and none.
After the game I joined my brother and stepmom for a second gustation at a very nice restaurant called MICHAEL. You know it's fancy because there's no apostrophe "s". I got there in time for dessert and I had something that's hard to explain and or remember the name of. My brother had a Trio of Chocolate and my stepmom had a creme brulee. The dessert I chose had Chambord in the name a couple of times. Bascially, that means raspberry sauce, which was artistically arranged in a crisscross pattern underneath everything. There was a tiny, perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. In between the ice cream and the sauce was a piece of cake, sweetened and flavored in a way that was indescribable. So I won't try. I didn't think I would like it because it wasn't chocolate. I was so wrong.
Okay, enough about my life and food. Now to the subject of this ramble, which is now reduced to a postscript. My previously mentioned brother flew into Chicago yesterday morning. He left his pregnant wife and two toddlers at home alone to come here for 24 hours. He brought a new computer for his mom [my stepmom, who is young enough to be my sister by the way] which he set up and showed her how to use. This morning he flew home.
I am convinced that only a son would do something like that for his mother. No other parent-child combination gets that kind of attention in my opinion.
For years I was offended by women who wished for sons instead of daughters. Or by women who openly expressed so much gratitude when they finally gave birth to a boy. "I've got my son." As the feminist mother of two females, I found that appalling. Same with dads who ask their wives to keep having children until they had one with a Y chromosome.
But now I am beginning to understand. Sons and mothers can have a bond that's greater than the sum of its parts. Greater than the bond between fathers and daughters. Mothers and daughters. Fathers and sons.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this. Because my brother is not only a
great son, he's a great brother and a great husband and father. Besides having a great relationship with his mother. So it
just may be his gift. But still, it got me thinking and that always leads to making broad, sweeping generalizations with nothing to back them up.
You were expecting more?