A testament for my father and the game he loves

Sometimes it's like a virus and sometimes it's like an electric fire. Either way, it spreads and consumes you.  It's this heart-pounding, gut-wrenching, love for something basic and elemental. A need...no, a drive to crawl your way towards a goal, sometimes with a battle cry, sometimes with tears, sometimes with blood, but always with courage. It's a legacy passed down in this country, and especially the south, from father to son. Football. The football field is one of the only remaining places where men can be men, and as a woman, I am glad for it. I grow weary of seeing and hearing from men who are afraid to stand up, push forward, gather themselves in defeat and soldier forth. As spectators, we watch helplessly, praying that "our boys" can make it. Whether you're a man or woman, this sport gets in your veins, it can inspire you, frustrate you, but we need it. For more reasons than one.

It is safe to say that the game of football has the been a backdrop to my life's story from the beginning. Some of my earliest memories revolve around the smell of a field house and running on the wet grass of the field after games. My father began his 29 year coaching career as a junior high coach in Gautier, Mississippi. I vividly remember, going to school with my father because I was sick and neither he nor my mother could stay home with me. He made me a make-shift palate under his desk in his "coaching office" right off of the school's gymnasium. There was a giant gator head painted on the floor. At the end of the day, I walked into the weight room, where those barely-teenage young men were training. They seemed huge to me. They smiled and patted my head. Many of those young men, who now have high schoolers of their own, chase my father down in the mall or in Pizza Hut, to hug him and catch up.Sometimes with tears in their eyes. Why? Because he was like a general for their little army of soldiers. He taught them the principles of football, expected them to act like men instead of little boys, and he showed them how. He loved the game, and more importantly, he loved them. This is my father's 29th season of coaching football. Except for an undefeated season with his young team in 1990, this year has been the most victorious for him. In our house, we have felt the sting of defeat often. My mother, sister, brother, and I have fallen asleep in the living room waiting for Dad to come home on those Friday nights when he reviewed film until the wee hours contemplating every detail that led to the loss. Thankfully, this season we have had just one night of disappointment and the others...well, they have more than made up for it. I am proud for him. I am proud of him. There is a legacy that he is leaving behind...comfortingly wrapped in the smell of a sweaty weight room and buzz of moths around the bright lights of a field. It is a legacy of grit, passion, and hard work. Interestingly, it is also a legacy of love exhibited in a sport defined by violence and hard hits. Football is in my blood, and I really did not discover that had received this inheritance until later in life (unlike my brother, who was christened from birth). I have enjoyed learning the game, acting like a crazy person from my seat in the stands, and learning to love what Dad loves. As it turns out, maybe I am my father's daughter after all.

Check out those coaching shorts!!! Hehe!