I’ve lost count of the number of football games I’ve been to in my lifetime.
My father has been nuts about football all his life, I think. Certainly all of mine.
The man knows scores of high school games from sixty, seventy years ago.
He knows obscure facts about players that nobody cares about. From pro teams. College teams. High school teams.
Even from schools that still play six man.
It’s unreal. If they had a version of Jeopardy with only football categories, Ken Jennings wouldn’t have stood a chance.
My dad should’ve been a coach or a sportscaster. Or Texas Football Czar.
I ask him all the time, ‘why do you know that?’ and ‘how do you remember that?’
That’s after he’s told me the life story and college career for some player on some team that we don’t even care about.
I got my first football for Christmas when I was seven, but I never really did anything with it.
But I tried to like it because my dad did. And maybe if I liked the thing he liked, just maybe he’d like me.
Eventually I stopped paying attention to football. There was a time when I despised it. Because it represented something I believed my father cared more about than me.
For the longest time I believed that lie.
So this past Sunday it was a thrill to sit with him at Cowboy Stadium.
Thanks to a friend who shared her season tickets with us, we got to watch the game from almost ground level at the forty yard line. Of course, as close as we were to the actual field, we both found ourselves glued to that enormous screen most of the time.
It was so loud inside the stadium that neither one of us could hear.
We ate hot dogs and nachos and he didn’t have to ask if I wanted Dr. Pepper.
And we had the sweetest time.