Baby Football

Today my brothers received their formal induction into America's favorite bloodsport. This morning I donned my empire-waisted fall coat and slouchy brown boots and hopped in the car with the rest of the Jones clan, and we headed to North Bend/Coos Bay (two towns that are actually kind of the same town. weird, I know). As soon as my brothers had their helmets and should pads on they adopted a swagger, the man swagger. When you get to be a tween and adults put you in plastic armor and tell you to go hit other kids - you automatically receive an extra jaunt in your step, apparently.

Some of the footballs dads were sweating it the practice before game day; word was North Bend practiced more and had more time to get used to their padding and helmets. We were all a little anxious before the game began, but by the beginning of the third quarter I'd characterize the mood on the Siuslaw bleachers as pride mixed with mild embarrassment: I stifled my cheers for Billy's touchdown runs, because - shoot - it just seemed like excessive celebration. Siuslaw turned it into a route, 36 - 0. Billy had a touchdown run greater than 50 yards, and Ricky made a couple terrific QB sacks. Then Ricky went and knocked the wind out of the other team's players and the kid had to be walked off the field. My parents looked around sheepishly, as if to say, "Is that okay for him to do that? Should we yell at him when we get home?" Our pastor, whose son is also on the team, happened to be sitting behind us. Pastor Randy assured us it was a fair tackle, the boy is just playing a good game of football. Phew, we got a pass.

Since I'm about to leave the country, I'm feeling extra sentimental about my brothers. I think I'm preemptively missing them. I find myself watching them on the field or listening to them jam on their drums and guitar and thinking about how I was about their age when they became a part of my life. When I was 11, I was changing their diapers, watching Bambi about four times a week, and learning that if you turn your back on an infant for three seconds he will find whatever you least want him to play with and try to eat it. I'm not down there in the action anymore - wiping away poop and collecting scattered leggos. Instead I'm in the stands cheering while they stiff arm the other little boys for a firstdown carry.

The good news is they're still afraid of aliens. And they still (secretly) adore Hannah Montana. You can dress them up like men, but they're still my baby brothers.