The making of a football mom
Ten plus years ago, when I met my husband Alan, he said, (and I quote) “I love my football and I love my friends,” little did I know what that would come to mean. Some of our dates involved us hanging out at the local park, throwing the football around. I can proudly say that he taught me the proper way to hold the ball and after a little warming up, I am able to throw a decent spiral. Not coming from a “football family” myself, it’s taken me years to come to terms with his bulging veins as he screams at the top of his lungs on football Sunday. Sometimes, it gets so intense, that I have to leave the room. Each year, from August through January, I began to refer to myself as a “football widow.” Likewise, it’s taken my husband years to explain “the passion.” When we were blessed with 2 boys, I saw that gleam in his eyes. I immediately made him promise that he would never push “that dangerous sport” on my babies. To my relief, for the first six years of my older son’s life, Zachary showed ZERO interest in the game while Alan clapped, whistled, cursed, stomped and nearly gave himself a coronary every Sunday. Then came the playoffs of 2010. Suddenly, my Zachary was parked on the sectional, football in hand and lending his extremely loud vocal chords to the day. And so it began. Next thing you know, I’m hosting a Super Bowl party complete with team paraphernalia and our own football pool. My son looks at me and says those dreadful words: “I wish I could play football.” His father looked like he would cry - a dream come true! The nervous mother in me - the one who swore up and down that my son(s) would never set foot on a football field - did what any loving parent would do when putting the needs of their child in front of their own desires went on-line and reluctantly Googled “football for kids, Monroe, NY,” all the while praying that there was no division for seven year olds. The computer retorted with “Monroe Woodbury Crusaders Pop Warner Tiny Mites” (ages five through seven!) Gulp! When we first signed him up, I thought he’d be playing flag football. Phew! Safe enough... To Zac’s content, it was full gear, full contact. “This is crazy!” I thought. “I can’t send my slender boy into that kind of chaos! He’s going to be crushed!” None-the-less, I suited him up ... and in doing so, began to feel “the passion.” Never in a million years would I think I’d go from the mom who frowned upon “a bunch of guys recklessly jumping on top of one another with a high probability of breaking their necks” to the mom who asked the coaches to “send the entire team after Zac to get him used to being tackled.” Thank you for making a fan out of me, Zac. And thank you to the coaches, team mom and assistants who dedicated their time and patience to the team. You all instilled amazing team spirit while teaching these boys the basics and finer points of the game. You made it a fun experience. You gave them the foundation of being good athletes and good sports. It was an absolute pleasure and honor being a part of the Cowboys. At the bus stop this morning, Zac said, “I don’t have football on Saturday.” I said, “No, football season is over.” “That’s kind of sad,” Zac frowned. “I know, but the good thing is, there’s always next year .” Rosanna Cohen and her family live in Monroe.