Fatherhood Football

I'm going to open this blog by saying that I'm all but sure that I have an addiction. Football is something that takes enough priority in my life that I legitimately am at 35% life productivity between the month of August and February. It goes family first as any good red-blooded American should have it. Work is second priority, but I sneak football into that priority often. Football is easily #3. My neighbors know it is half time if I'm mowing the lawn and depending on the matchup that week, if we had a hurricane coming, I may only board up "the important windows" so as not to miss too many snaps.

But priority #1 is always family.

My hard working wife has a full time career AND runs her own photography business, so a lot of weekend mornings are spent balancing QB ratings and snack time. It's a rather interesting transformation from my old watching habits. My old beverage of choice on football mornings consisted of a six pack and a liter of orange juice. Now it's a Starbucks coffee. I used to want to share the day with all my friends as we shit on opposing players all day. Now I just want to chase my daughter around the house and teach her about the benefits of zone vs man defense.

I take a little pride in getting my kid suited for the game; As treasonous as it sounds, we're suited like Oregon, we have hair ties to match every jersey combo that my daughter has. She's more equipped than I am I think. She knows to clap when we make a play and sounds pissed when we blow an assignment. She knows dad is all ears during commercials, but that daddy's not good at eye contact when we have the ball.

One of the hardest aspects of football days with a toddler at home is nap time. Noise in general is a much touchier thing. Startling children is much easier than you think. I learned my lesson on what not to do before I even had a kid. About a year before we had our child, my god daughter was still just a baby and her and the family had come over for a Seahawk Sunday; I had her sitting on my chest as I watched the game, she was giggly and smiley and seemingly enjoying herself. All of the sudden, one of our incompetent QB's threw an interception and my loud and instinctual reaction scared that child senseless. I honestly feel like she made a decision from that point on to hate me. She has looked at me like a leader of the Taliban ever since.

So watch the yelling or a child might put a jihad on you.

I have now mastered the art of silent excitement. My celebrations usually consist of giant jump kicks reminiscent of a Van Halen video, machine gun hands and the double fist shake from the knees... I've even been known to Tebow in close game situations. I now move like a cat. I have even learned to unconsciously avoid the parts in my living room floor that creak. I'm like a wide receiver tip toeing the sideline now.

I have also assaulted every pillow and cushion on my couch.

But I credit my ability to cope with the excitement of the gridiron to a patented move of mine called the "nap clap". It is a clap of your fists as if you are violently giving yourself dap. I feel sorry for the next guy to get my hammer fists. I train bro. But I can tell you that I got my black belt in silent celebrations on September 24th, 2012. I remember it well. It was my mothers birthday and I had just gotten off of the phone with her. The Seahawks were in a tight game on Monday Night Football against the Green Bay Packers. Russel (last name Wilson) launched a hail mary into the air and as quiet as a stinky fart, I rose to my feet as the ball elevated into the air. The scrum of players came down into a pile of blue and gold and the clueless referees looked at each other in confusion. The indecision seemed to have lasted a minute. White knuckles hand in hand with my wife, standing directly in front of our LG TV, we were waiting for a signal. The back judge raised his hands and the world erupted.

I think I did a forward hand spring with back flip onto the coffee table, but not a single audible noise escaped my mouth. Each of my appendages flailing aggressively through the air in celebration. I pray that the ghost of the old lady that lived here before us, that we are convinced still resides here, was not watching the game with us because I likely whooped her ass unintentionally. After I was able to settle down and change my underwear, I looked at the video monitor of our baby and she was laying there like a rock.

I just escaped a hail mary win on national television without waking my child. From that point on, I was a master.

But with all of the changes that have happened with my addiction over the years, I have to admit that my priorities are vastly different and I wouldn't have it any other way. One of my favorite part of football mornings with my kid is when we score a touchdown, she knows Dad will be excited and willing to chase her around the house. We score, I make eye contact with her as she strategically stands ready, knees bent, eager to run either through the kitchen or through the living room. And as soon as I get up and make my way towards her, she erupts in laughter and runs as fast as those chubby little legs will take her until I tackle her. Hand her a mini football while she's wearing her Beast Mode jersey and you will break the 'cute meter'.

If I'm being honest, if all my teams win and my kid is willing to let me chase her around the house... I couldn't ask for much better of a weekend. And as I get older I realize that my relationship with my dad growing up did not include a lot of fishing and camping--- it was spent watching the Huskies and Seahawks. And to this day I share Seahawk season tickets with my dad and brother and hold a special place in my life for this sport, the memories we've made as a family and the excitement I get thinking about enjoying those same things with my daughter and eventual all-state safety of a son.

It's safe to say fatherhood fucks you up just a little if you prefer being sober and silent with an expensive ass roommate rather than care free and hammered on Sundays. I must have a new addiction.