The Way I See It
By Joseph C. Phillips

The Football Bridge

I love football.  Football is one of God’s greatest creations, right up there with pepperoni pizza and my wife’s freckles.  As a boy, I played football every waking moment.  I played football with anyone willing to play and when I couldn’t find a friend to play with me, I played by myself.  I fell asleep nights dreaming of running touchdowns for the Dallas Cowboys.  Years later backstage at the Regis and Kathy Lee show, I fawned over Tom Landry like a school boy. His autographed autobiography has a prominent place in my library.

Still, I am not certain what possessed me to coach my sons’ flag football team this year. Insanity, perhaps?  As much as I love my sons, I felt coaching them would certainly be a mistake.  I am not the most patient father in the world and trying to teach a group of silly seven and eight-year-olds how to play football was sure to test my limits. And my sons are especially silly. 

I was terrified my frustration would cause me to be especially hard on my boys.  I have seen other father/coaches ride their sons hard – much harder than they do the other children.  Perhaps it’s because they know while they can whack their sons across the back of the head if they get annoyed. The same discipline applied to someone else’s child will result in a lawsuit, a punch in the mouth or both.

It may also be that all fathers want their sons to show some athletic prowess.  Unfortunately, seven and eight-year-old boys are just developing much of the coordination necessary for sports and many of them are often spastic.  It is tough for a football loving father to wait patiently in hopes that their son will develop the necessary skills and in fear that he will fall in love with another sport, say synchronized swimming or figure skating. 

As I considered all of this, I began to have visions of tears, yelling and crying on my wife’s shoulder. And that would just be my reaction!

I ignored my fears, however, and chose to coach because football was also something special I shared with my father.  We bonded through football.

As a pediatrician, my father covered the city high school games on the weekends.  When my parents separated (and eventually divorced), those Saturday football games were golden times with my father. 

I also remember how important it was to me when my father came to see me play organized football.  He stood over 6 feet 4 inches tall so he was easy to pick out on the sideline and I could always hear his voice cheer me on.  I loved the way he smiled at me after a game and the way his chest poked out when other adults patted me on the shoulder and compared me to Mean Joe Green. I wanted to see that smile so I played hard.  I played hard for the love of the game, but I also played my heart out so that I could see the gleam in his eye.

So far coaching has been rather uneventful – no meltdowns yet.  I suspect that is because I now know something of what my father must have felt. I love watching my sons play ball.  They play with abandon and joy.  They laugh and giggle like all seven and eight-year-old boys, but they are also eager to learn and can practice and play with intensity. And like I did as a boy, they look to see if I am smiling. And I am.

Time will tell if my sons love the game as much as their old man.  It may be that they decide to take up figure skating. But they will never forget these years.  The game will always be a bridge across the years and I wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.

Send me your ways of seeing it at Josephcp@netlistings.com