...That was what my father would yell at me when he and I were trying to chase a farm animal on foot. My father actually loved me very much. And he had it exactly right. I did run when I played football. It's just that when a bull had escaped the friendly confines of the Luther corral system, I wasn't always sure which direction to run to help retrieve the critter.
My father loved football. As far as I know he never played football. At least, not with me. As I played around with my football by myself in our yard, my dad would come home at supper time and park his tractor at the far end of the yard. As he walked past me, I would toss him the ball, and he would deflect it back at me with an awkward two-handed motion. Of course, he had a big grin on his face. However, it was busy season, and he had no time to play catch with me.
One particular autumn we had a lot of hay and straw bales to haul from the fields to the yard for winter. On the Thanksgiving long weekend, my dad was pleased when he and I were able to haul 1000 bales on Saturday and another 1000 on Monday. As it turned out, we were still hauling bales when Grey Cup Saturday rolled around in late November.
We worked like busy beavers that morning and into the afternoon. Then, at game time, Dad and I suddenly stopped hauling bales, and he and I sat in our work clothes in the living room for the next 2.5 hours, watching the CFL championship game. I know that he knew how badly I wanted to watch this game. I know he wanted to see it, too, but he maybe would have skipped watching it if his bale hauling partner had been some hired hand instead of his own boy.
It was pretty obvious: my father loved football and my father loved me. What a great combination.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment