My oldest son has re-upped for junior high football. After last year’s dismal season I had some huge reservations. Last year, the coaches hadn’t even bothered to learn his name. He wasn’t the only one. Of the sixty kids that came out for seventh-grade football, about fourteen played. Yep, ironman all the way. And guess what? We got our butts kicked, and kicked, and kicked. Those fourteen might have been the biggest on the team, but even they didn’t have the stamina to play both ways the entire game. Stupid men. There is so much more to football than size.
Miraculously, the school cleaned house, and picked new coaches for this season. I still wasn’t hopeful this would change anything for my son until we happened to come across the head coach at a park here in town a week ago. He not only noticed my son, but called out his name.
Hallelujah! Be still my heart! The coach knows his name.
He even shook my son’s hand, and joked with him about the conditioning the team’s been going through like he was part of the team. Maybe, just maybe, this year my son will get the chance to show what he can do.