I’ve watched a ton of football games over the years, but for the first time, I witnessed one of my own children actually carry the ball for a touchdown. I just gotta say, “Holy cow—what a nerve wracking five-seconds that was.” It felt more like five minutes of torture to my body. He was clear back around the five yard line when the punted ball landed in his hands, so he had a very long run ahead of him to get it into the end zone. I’m pretty sure my heart stayed lodged in my throat the entire distance, yet I still managed to scream, “Go, go, go.” What made it even funnier—I had been asked to take care of the down marker as part of the chain help for the game. I don’t even know when I started running, but I was about halfway down the field with the down marker still in my hand when he scored.  Which is a big no, no, since I’m supposed to keep track of where the line of scrimmage is, in case there’s a penalty that gets the ball called back. Good thing we’re talking ten-year-olds and not high school football, because the referee didn’t chew me out when I walked over to place the marker for the extra point.

“Well,” he said with a wink, “I think I’ve figured out which one of them is yours.”

I burst out laughing, having made a spectacle of myself again. Good thing I do it so often it no longer bothers me.