A father reflects on his son’s journey from hesitant beginner to resilient young player — and the lessons learned about toughness, pride and love for the game.
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From the moment you first sign up your kid to play football, the thought is in the back of your mind. When you see him lying motionless, alone in an expanse of fake grass, the thought races to the very foremost parts of your brain.
That moment happened two Saturdays ago in my son’s last football game of an otherwise wonderful final season of youth football.
Flashing back to the heir’s wee days—toddling around the neighborhood, racing tricycles, doing things kids do when skinned knees are our biggest concern—the question was vexed: Would he one day be allowed to play football?
Most of the neighborhood parents, regarding their own sons, said no.
Coyly believing our not-so-coordinated little boy would never get close to a football field—other than maybe one day in the marching band—we said, “Sure, why not?”
The why not is easy. They could get hurt. Just as they could get hurt doing everything else little boys do.
During all that time, there’s no preparing for the cheap-shot artists.
One day in first grade, the lad brought home a form and proudly announced it: “I’m going to play football.”
He only got a form because his tablemate, one of his early good friends, also got one.
We looked it over.
Todd reflects on his son’s youth football journey—from first timid practices to taking a hard hit and proving his toughness in the final game.Metro Creative Graphics
“So you’re going to play flag football?” We pictured him, his grade’s smallest body, running around on a field with little to no purpose.
“Nope,” came the reply. “Tackle.”
He could not have been more serious.
His first practices consisted of wearing his helmet for 20 minutes a day to make sure it didn’t make him tip over. I’m not making that up.
In his early days of regular practice, he routinely finished last in the wind sprints. He gradually improved to the point that he finished ahead of about one-third of his teammates. Still not a speed merchant, for sure, but making up ground fast.
This year he was a starting defensive tackle on an undefeated team that allowed just 50 points and had five shutouts in its first nine games.
That was before getting drilled in the championship by a team that really wasn’t very good other than one player, who probably could have started for (and, rumors have it, might even have been old enough for) many area varsity teams.
On the first play of the game, the opposing star player took a handoff, went around the end and was gone. Our hero, meanwhile, was caught in the scrum at the line of scrimmage and trailed the play.
He was a good 35 yards away from the ball, no threat to make the tackle, when an opponent delivered what one Highland High varsity coach said was one of the dirtiest hits he had ever seen.
Like everyone else, I was watching the ball carrier and didn’t see the hit. Replays concurred with the coach’s assessment.
Likewise, I was obscured and unable to see the lone body still facedown at midfield well after the play. Another parent asked me if my son was No. 9, which he indeed was.
“He’s down,” the parent said.
After the longest minute or so of my life, I watched my son stagger off with the help of a coach. Being the closer of his two parents to the sideline, I went over to make sure he was OK. His back hurt. And his side. His bell was still ringing.
“Can you play?”
“I don’t know.”
He wound up not missing a snap, battling for the remaining 35 minutes, taking some more licks while dishing out a few of his own.
He walked off the field weary and battered. I walked out of the stadium beaming.
The little kid I never thought would play football took the best and cheapest shot an opponent had, shook it off, got back in there and finished the game, playing his guts out to the final whistle.
