I don’t mind football as long as it’s other mothers’ sons who are crashing their bodies around the field. When it comes to my own sons’ participation, however, I prefer gentler sports. Like chess.
Thankfully Eamon and Ambrose have thus far seemed content to play little league baseball, basketball, and various forms of amateur, no-holds-barred wrestling. So far, so good, I thought. Until yesterday.
“Hey Mama,” came Ambrose’s voice from the back seat of the van while driving home from the library. “Are there football teams for kids?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” I tried to make my voice casual, but inside I was sweating bullets.
Ambrose was intrigued: “Could I play on a football team?”
“No,” I answered and I said a silent prayer that my rejection would end the conversation. It didn’t.
“Football is a very rough sport,” I shouted above the sound of Eamon’s unsolicited advice that Ambrose should ask Papa whether or not he was allowed to play football. “You don’t want to break your neck do you, Ambrose?”
I waited while Ambrose considered my question. At long last he answered “No.”
Phew! I even had time to breathe a tentative sigh of relief before he added, “I want to break someone else’s!”