We're All Going to Die, But What a Football Game

We're all going to die, but what a game Saturday.

Our family consists of Boston College fans -- perpetually tantalized and incompletely realized. This story, however, belongs to fans of any team in any sport. It belongs to all those who have loved both sport and family, and who have, at one point or another, commingled the two. While the group is not select, its members are most fortunate indeed.

Some background: this football season has been better than most for BC. Saturday's come-from-behind win over Clemson put the Eagles at 9-2. The fourth quarter was nearly as dramatic as the final seconds of the Eagles victory over Virginia Tech three weeks earlier. Two losses in between reminded us to savor success.

The truly elite college football teams have more talent, depth, and speed than the Eagles. But in addition to a squad of overachievers, BC has that one player who brings a twinkle of hope not only to the huddle, but to his huddled masses. More on him in a moment.

First, back to the existential rub. Watching the broadcast of Saturday's game through the eyes of our four-year old son, Luke, not only made a great game better, it reminded me why that which does not really matter -- sport -- actually really does.

We learned shortly before kickoff that my decidedly horn-rimmed brother was at the game. Random? If he'd called to announce he was at an Elizabethan poetry conference I wouldn't have batted an eye. But Clemson on a Saturday night? Despite being a Duke grad (at least he didn't go to Notre Dame), he wore a Clemson sweatshirt in a hopeless attempt to blend. In other words, with a trip to the ACC Championship game on the line, my own flesh and blood had a tiger paw on his chest.

In the category of love is blind, when my brother called Luke from inside the stadium, Luke actually believed the ridiculous story that "Uncle Ryan" was cheering for BC but wearing Clemson orange "because he was cold and needed an extra layer." Sure. Because Blue Devils, dressed as Tigers, cheering for Eagles are quite popular in Death Valley. Not since Adam and Eve covered up has sartorial betrayal been as dishonest on as many levels.

Luke, however, remains in the garden of sport. Watching him watch a game is a window into an evolving mind operating at a sweetly insufficient peak capacity.

Saturday was a case in point. With a constantly furrowed brow he repeatedly inquired as to why, for example, if a field goal is three points, only one is awarded for an extra point ("but you said a field goal was three!"). The speed of the game also poses challenges, leading to questions about why, if a touchdown is six points and not seven, every time he starts to figure out what the team's previous score plus six is, the graphics on the screen already reflect the addition of seven. With the score at 10-7, he calculates the point differential finger-by-finger ("eight, nine, TEN!"). He particularly values the innovation of the digital first down line, not that he has any idea that it's a recent innovation. For him, it adds tangibility to an intermediate goal that is otherwise far too abstract ("how many more chances to get to the yellow?").

Like many fans, Luke knows the name of only one player on his chosen team. That player is quarterback Matt Ryan, for whom Luke searches even when the Eagles are on defense. Indeed, upon seeing a camera shot of Ryan on the sidelines wearing a headset, Luke announced that Ryan was "a coach too." Only through a child's eyes, does a player not only play both ways, but also serve as a player-coach in modern college football.

Make no mistake. Like all fans, kids get frustrated. But the frustration is different. When the announcers repeatedly noted that BC's kickoffs were, to put it delicately, distance-challenged, Luke processed their commentary as follows: "The kicker is trying his best; he just needs to keep trying his best and maybe he'll kick it farther!" The progressive increase in pitch reflected a humanism strikingly at odds with older, more cynical fans. One day, perhaps, that tide will turn.

Luke's focus existed not only on every single play but also during every single crowd shot, in which he looked hopelessly for his oh-so-intentionally-camouflaged uncle in the crowd. How many kids over the years have done the same? During Clemson's final drive, Luke kept saying: 'I hope Uncle Ryan is yelling defense; I hope he's yelling defense really loudly; I hope he's saying it really, really loudly.'

But it was Matt Ryan, rather than Uncle Ryan, to whom the credit for victory belonged, and from a kid's perspective, the scope of such heroism is limitless. When the game ended at 11:30p.m. -- three hours after bedtime -- Luke's attempt to avoid the inevitable was, "but they're interviewing Matt Ryan!" Luke might as well have been a generational predecessor who wanted "one more minute" of Babe Ruth, or Jesse Owens, or Billie Jean King, or Pele. The medium could just as easily have been radio. As with children for whom the Babe Ruth was, um, Matt Ryan, the answer was, "Oh, well, in that case . . . it's still 11:30p.m."

In 2003, then 6-month old Luke and I watched game 7 of the Cubs-Marlins NLCS with my Grandpa, a lifelong suffering Cubs fan, as if there is any other kind. Luke, of course, had no idea what was happening. That night, three of us, spanning four generations, were able share one particular fleeting moment of Grandpa's life as a fan. The game provided a lasting marker for a treasure in time. Eight decades separated Luke and Grandpa then, and thankfully still do today. Yet sport placed them in a shared den. Four years of human development later, they also share a state of mind -- that of the fan.

The moment of Matt Ryan's latest triumph, a 43-yard touchdown pass with 1:46 remaining, was also the moment of Luke's unreserved celebratory touchdown dance. The former was in a stadium in South Carolina; the latter in a New York City apartment. In some other living room, it was a lesson in heartbreak which will be ours another day. Sport, for all its many flaws, connected those moments, those places; those people.

It is that connection which makes the memories last. Four years ago in that Game 7, Moises Alou homered in the bottom of the third to all-too temporarily give the Cubs the lead. With the perspective of wisdom and experience, Luke's great-grandfather didn't wait to appreciate the moment. He thanked Luke, right then and there, "for bringing the Cubs good luck." I'll never forget that thank you. Just as I'll never forget Luke's touchdown dance. Each was the gift of a game.

In the end, even a brother or uncle or friend in Clemson orange is still or brother or uncle or friend. More broadly, whether our shirts say Tigers or Eagles; Buckeyes or Wolverines; Irish or Trojans; Longhorns or Sooners; Real Madrid or Barcelona; or even Cardinals or Cubs, the hearts beneath those logos are what we share. And they only beat for so many moments.

So if this Thanksgiving the sharing of a game connects you with family or friend, whether near or far, it might not hurt to pause for just a moment -- while still in that moment -- to give thanks for sport.

Comments

[golfergirlMT]

James, you are writing genius. From a fan!

[sparkandy]

I hate football, but I remember fondly the times my mother allowed no conversation on Thanksgiving except during commercials when Oklahoma was playing Nebraska. I'd watch a football game Thanksgiving day if I had my mother back to watch it with. I'll be a Sooner forever just to honor the memory of the greatest mom in the world.