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Monday, August 16, 2010

The Mighty, Mighty Visqueens

It is that time of year, the hottest scorch-y-est, sun-blistering time when all the stupid…I mean supportive parents of the world put on their Favorite High School Football Sweatshirt and roast what little brains they still have left in the name of Sport.

And yes I am talking Football, baby!

My son is a high school footballer, and he has asked me not to call him that in front of his friends. But none of his friends can read so I think I am safe. Frankly I can’t remember what it was he wanted me to call him. Last year he wanted to go by Tyler because his friend at school was named Tyler and he thought it was cool. All I can say is, thank heaven he does not hang out with that Pincock kid anymore. I think it's something like the sporting dudes – what he wants me to call him and his friends on the team, but it just ain't gonna happen. I, myself, would like to be known as buff rich dude, but no one is obliging me so far.

So, the sporting dudes are in two-a-days, which means that I am in two-a-days also. Apparently ones loyalty to the team is measured by how many fans you have attending every little function and function-ette the team sponsors. I have been to breakfasts and dinners and camp outs and parades and nooners and fun runs and fundraisers and one sleep-over because I fell asleep while I was supposed to be the parent-in-charge and they left me in the weight room overnight.

I have painted helmets and blown up balloons and hidden in boxes for half-time and created life sized portraiture of the team captains, and fought with an old lady who tried to gank the seats I had been saving since two o’clock the previous day - all in the name of Tyler, or whatever he is being called these days.

This year, my booster club (aka the flying felons) has assigned me the creation of legs for the platform that serves as a moving base for the paper-mach' and diamond encrusted giganto helmet for the players to run through at the beginning of the game after they have been on the field for a half an hour anyway warming up and waving at the cameras of the poor people who were rich once who spent all their money on cameras.

We boosters are not allowed to manually move the thing on and off the field because of last year’s fight between the “Gloria's” - two old women with the same name from opposing teams who got in a fight that set off the fireworks during the halftime show that burnt the hair off all the cheerleaders dancing in center field - a bout of bad luck if you ask me. These poor girls milked it however, and spent the rest of the season cheering from the handicapped section – the only area of the stadium where they could be rolled while still in traction.

Ladies and gentleman, this is serious stuff. We spent all our vacation money buying coupon books. We skipped Aunt Ednas viewing (may she rest in peace) for the team car wash at the mall. We buy all our clothes at football yard sales, and donated all our furniture to assure that the home game souvenir programs were printed in color - a must have for any team that wants to place higher that fifth in region.

Some people think we take this whole High School football thing to far, but I say to them that such is the talk from boosters of high schools of the super wussy where they don’t have the wherewithal to fill the gold leaf, monogrammed mink lined athletic supporters that our honest home owners tax dollars purchased.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go make sure that the tiny water fountains placed in the end zone are synchronized well enough to spell out The Phlaming Visqueens during the national anthem.

After all - Winners do what losers wont!


  1. That was wildly entertaining and terrifying at the same time. I hope my kid never wants to play football--I'm not sure I'm up for all this! Maybe I should start stifling his athletic ability now, while I still have a chance at a normal life?

  2. That's why I'm going to encourage my kid to play in the band. A couple hundred bucks for band camp and we're done.

    Single Dad Laughing