Man In Black
This week was Football Skills Camp. It was run by the coaches of the highly nationally successful high school football team here in our hometown. Did I mention that football is SERIOUS bid-ness here in Texas? Whoa doggie. They ain't messin' around. EVERY single SUV within a 40 mile radius sports a Dragon sticker like this on it:
I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. And, yes, I realize that isn't the greatest looking mascot, but DUDE, they rule. When we first got here, we thought it was some weird Department of Motor Vehicle requirement to have these on your car or something. And I know that isn't the case, but I still harbor an unreasonable fear that a policeman will pull me over and issue me a citation for not having one, just the same. FAILURE TO BE A REAL DRAGON FAN.
There is a lottery to get a seat to watch these games. Just ask my husband, who waited all night long in the line only to find out in the morning, he was out of luck. Seriously, fanatical fans drive all day long from all over God's creation to come watch football here in Texas. High school football. Children. In green outfits with a big goofy dragon as their mascot. Seriously. When we lived in NC we watched this team on t.v. They played their last championship game at the Dallas Cowboy stadium. Here is their little ol' football field:
So, imagine my trepidation, no, make that MY SHEER TERROR at the thought of WILLIAM going to this camp and not quite cutting the mustard (oh there I go again), that is, not really being as skilled as the other 2nd graders who have been being groomed in the art of football skill acquisition since the moment of their conception on their Mama and Daddy's neon green colored bedspread.
Well, I was worried, but not because I couldn't handle it. Clearly, I am used to my kids not being in the top 10% of, well, anything. But THIS CHILD just wouldn't do well, let's say, if he failed miserably. My eyes are crossing and a wave of nausea overcomes me just imagining the scenarios. I guess I haven't mentioned this about him before, but William is utterly and completely OBSESSED (and not in the healthy sense) with PEYTON MANNING and football in general. He writes books about Peyton in his spare time and spends the rest of his time making football play books. You know, with X's and O's and arrows and what not.
One day I spent my entire day printing out GOOGLE images of Peyton on my printer for him. Somehow I'm sure that tagged me as a stalker and the FBI has deemed me a "person of interest" as a result. He doesn't watch cartoons like other normal children, he watches some special NFL channel we pay for - where there are rerun NFL football games on for his viewing pleasure - 24/7. And he watches them, 24/7. And there are times, when I have to lay down the law and, I am like, "It is TIME TO WATCH Sponge Bob Square Pants!" I mean as a mother, it is my job, to create a healthy, balanced childhood for my children, right?
As it was, on the first day of camp, when the coach called all of the kids to the middle of the astro turf indoor stadium - and all of the other mini Peyton Mannings and Brett Favres go flying out like baby birds to their Mama - William turns to me and starts bawling. I pointed. AT THE OTHER CHILDREN. AND THE COACH. and I said, GO. NOW. And he fled, wiping tears with his little baby bird wings. If I'd had an ice pick handy, I would have rammed it into my own skull. He's SO INTENSE. It's only 8:45 a.m. It's not 5:00 ANYWHERE.
After 3 hours of wondering and worrying, I drive back to the set of the new reality t.v. series: "The Making of a Dallas Cowboy" - I mean "football skills camp" and find the varsity players handing out various awards... there are 2 awards for each grade level. This isn't good. Call me a pessimist, but I instinctively know the following two things:
1. William will not win one of these awards. and
2. He will spend the next 7 years of his life in complete and utter anguish as a result.
I want to run at the coach and shake him and shout, "WHY THE AWARDS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY, MAN?" I wonder if it is too late to slip someone a twenty? AAACCCKKK! I prepare for the worst. The announcements are made.
"2nd grade: Punt, Pass and Kick Award goes to CHANDLER FIELDS.
Pacesetter award goes to : Brandon Smith.
Award for most severely depressed child goes to : William" (okay I am making that last one up.)
To my great surprise and delight he doesn't even mention the award ceremony afterwards. He is happy. Very. He had a great time. Aliens have abducted my mini-dictator. Thank you, aliens. Oh, and I do NOT accept returns, so um, have fun with that in Mars, ok?
Fast forward to the next day's awards ceremony.
"2nd Grade Pacesetter Award: Dylan Meyers.
2nd Grade Punt, Pass, Kick Award: William (our last name)."
I have a mini-heart attack. I'm wondering if there is another Will with the same last name. But no, it is my kid. Who wins the award. He looks at me through the sea of green and black sweaty cotton t's and beams. Very cool. I sigh a great sigh of relief. He won his award for the week. Now I can relax.
Today was the last day of camp. I didn't realize that, previously. I figured it went through Friday. Guess I should read me flyers a bit more closely, eh? Anyway, I had a doctors appointment that I could only squeeze in very quickly at the time his camp would be ending, so I left my oldest son, Nick, there to receive William and watch over him until I could get there.
I showed up right as everyone was filing out and I'm able to pick out my two little love machines in the vast crowd. One is gigantic and put-upon looking and one is tiny and clad all in black, and grinning wildly and holding a trophy. A TROPHY????
Apparently, he won the much-coveted, end of camp, "Best Camper Award" for 2nd grade. This highly prestigious award is given to the one person in each grade who most exhibits the qualities of leadership, encouragement to teammates, and overall football skills. How in the love of Pete did HE get it? I kid. I kid.
I spend the rest of my afternoon admiring the trophy at his behest and conducting a photo shoot for one very fussy and particular photographee.
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