Archives for November 2007

It is just short of midnight and I am still kind of wound up. I am not sure when Thanksgiving turned into such a big production. I can’t quite put my finger on when it meant enduring a crazed marathon of chaos and cacophony.

Most years it is held at my parent’s house. It is the house I grew up in so it is filled with memories. I still venture into my old bedroom. My parents have turned it into sort of a den/office. It has a desk, a computer and a flat screen on the wall. Pretty different from the various posters I once had and the men at work sign I put on the ceiling. (Point of information- it was a construction sign that had nothing to do with the band.)

Sometimes I find myself wandering through the house looking for my grandfather. It is 18 months since he died and yet I still expect to find him sitting in his chair. Every now and then I am surprised that I haven’t heard him yell at the dog to get out of the way.

Speaking of the big lug it is times like this when his absence is even more noticeable. It used to be that you didn’t worry about dropping food. We didn’t care when my baby nephew through food on the floor because the furry vacuum cleaner would get to it before we did.

Some things have always been the same. My parents kvetch at each other about a few little things. My mom yells at my sisters about doing more to help and my dad tells me to stop aggravating everyone. With a twinkle in my eye I beg my father to send me to my room and he mutters something about disconnecting the computer and the flat screen.

Dinner is loud. There must 287 people stuffed around three tables. I try to sit at the kids table and am scolded by my six year-old niece for being too big. My three year-old nephew thinks it is great. He and his cranberry filled hands are only too happy to pat me on the back.

It is loud, really loud. I have a grandmother and a sister who wear hearing aids and a grandfather who probably should. One of the 929,983 kids turns on the television and 290,873 adults yell at him or her to turn it off. Instead of it being turned off the eldest nephew deftly turns on some kids show and now the 929,983 kids are assembled in front of it.

This raises a dilemma. They’re relatively quiet and occupied. Do we mess with the quiet and insist that they visit. They’ve been hanging out together since the day before, having all survived the sleepover at grandma and grandpa’s house.

My two remaining grandparents are relatively quiet. Just short of 94 it is clear that they are slowing down. They still interact with us all. They’re happy to play with the kids and want to know what is going on in our lives, but still, I see that they are getting tired faster than they used to.

In the kitchen my mother is yelling at someone. She is not really angry. This is her “I am really tired voice.” I suspect that one of my brother-in-laws has been caught trying to sneak a piece of pie before she is ready to serve dessert. He should have asked me for my assistance. I am an expert at smuggling a pumpkin pie into the service porch where I can sample the wares before they are placed for all to eat.

Suddenly I realized that my mother is yelling at me. She suspects that I have tried to use the BIL to do my dirty work. Note to self, mom hasn’t lost a step. She remembers all of my tricks so I need to keep coming up with new ones. In this case she is wrong so it is easy for me to smile and say that I am innocent.

BTW Mom, if you ever read this, I did get a piece of pie. Remember the pie box that looked like someone had accidentally dumped upside down, well you did tell me to take care of it. I shouldn’t admit this here, but that cool whip that you saw on inside of the box didn’t get there because someone dumped it. It was intentionally smeared there.

Amazingly enough the kids make it through the night with minimal fighting. Not too shabby considering how much time they spent together. My three year-old nephew is fearless and tried to take on my almost seven year-old son. Nephew didn’t fare as well as he thought he would. His big brother is very tolerant of his shenanigans. His cousin is not so tolerant, but was careful to try not to hurt the three year-old.

My daughter and niece beg me to play makeup and dress up with them. Thankfully there isn’t time. It is far too late and I take the kids home. But something tells me that tomorrow they’ll hit me up early in the day. Uncle Jack doesn’t look great in drag, but I wouldn’t want to disappoint the kids now would I. Maybe we’ll take pictures.

Then again maybe I’ll consider moving to cleveland. I am spent. Time for bed. See y’all in the a.m.

Thanksgiving Day 1987. I am 18 years old and standing on the sidelines of an exceptionally muddy football field. Today is going to be my first time playing in my fraternity’s annual “Turkey Bowl.” There are two games, the pledges versus the young actives and the older actives versus the alumni.

It is a physical game. We don’t play touch. We don’t play flag. It is tackle football. It is violent and brutal. You don’t wander onto the field unless you are willing to get hit. We have have heard all of the war stories. Broken noses, ruptured spleen, shattered eye socket and bruises galore.

We don’t just beat the actives. We dominate them. I play noseguard. It is a position that suits me. I don’t mind the dirt. I like the contact. I love the challenge, the chance to impose my will on another.

As I age I remind myself that playing might not be so smart. I am not afraid. Fear is what causes injury. No, I am wary of the three days of recovery time. Pick up basketball doesn’t prepare you for this. This is far more physical. I go hard every play. Every time I line up I try to knock the guy in front of me on his ass. Hit him hard and hope that over time he’ll get tired of getting hit.

Usually it works. More often than not they get tired of getting pounded on, worn out by the constant tug-of-war. I start to get into the backfield on every play. The quarterback is my prey. I haven’t managed a sack in a couple of years and my ego is bruised. I used to average one a game. Way back in the glorious year of 1993 I had four.

In ’94 I was 24. No kids, no wife, no mortgage, no responsibilities. I am determined to prove that I haven’t lost it. Perhaps I am a step slower. Certainly I am a bit softer in the middle than I was. But now I have the guile that comes with age. A crafty veteran of numerous battles I use economy of motion to maximize productivity.

Every play I bait the center. I dare him to go head to head. I promise not to embarrass him too badly. Initially it works. When I was 20 I too was young, dumb and stupid. He really does believe that the old man crouched in front of him can’t possibly keep it up. He is wrong.

This game gives me a rush. It is like having a caffeine drip inserted directly into my veins. It is an addiction. I can’t bear to think of the day when I am not able to play because I can’t. Imagine a 240 pound five-year-old with three days growth.

I start preparing to play two months before. September rolls around and I roll out the Turkey Bowl workout. More push ups, more tricep extensions, crunches, bench press, curls and more. I work on creating a body built for punishment.

One hour of play. That is all I have to withstand. One hour of getting out there and giving the game all I can muster. Sometimes I play both ways. Defensive line and offensive line, with the odd bout at fullback.

Game day arrives and the alumni assemble. On the far end of the field we huddle up. Hells Bells by AC/DC plays in the background. As the bell tolls we pump each other up. We know that we are weekend warriors. There are no illusions. Most of us are decent athletes, but we didn’t play pro or college ball. We have our limitations, but not when it comes to heart. In a few minutes kickoff we’ll come and we’ll charge the actives in our own miniature war.

Twenty years go by in the blink of an eye. Thanksgiving day 2007. When I wake up I roll out of bed and hobble to the shower. My body aches from two hours of basketball. I suspect that my posture resembles that of a question mark. Inside the shower I focus on stretching and working out the kinks.

A few hours later I am standing on the sidelines. I have reluctantly decided not to play. My body still feels like hell. I tell myself I am being smart, mature and responsible. Inside my head there is a voice screaming at me. He is berating me, taunting me, teasing me, asking me when I turned into such a little man. I do my best to ignore him.

It is not working, but I am not dressed to play. I tell myself that I’ll just hang out and talk to the guys. There are a bunch who don’t play. It is nice to catch up with them. Still, I find myself staring at the field. Eventually I’ll give in. I’ll tell myself that it is ok. I’ll rationalize it by saying that I compromised. A partial game means a shorter recovery time.

So here I am many hours later. I am happy, but the truth is that I am a man who has a terrible itch. I wish that I would have played longer. I should have just played. I am not that old yet. I can still get out there and next year I will.