The day after Thanksgiving is a peaceful one. There's no more cooking to be done--it's a leftovers feast. Everyone's following favorite pursuits. At Thanksgiving Central for our family, the three granddaughters were doing something girly-girly together; Alpha daughter and my daughter-in-law were chatting. Outside, Uber son, my grandson, son-in-law and Paterfamilias were tossing the football around. They had some sort of "game" going when I wandered outside, with John, a friend of the family who was spending Thanksgiving with us. We watched them heave the ball around and establish rules for two-handed touch. I suggested we join them.
It was not a universally popular move. John wasn't particularly keen to play but he was game. The four players--PF and SIL on one side, Uber son and grandson on the other--seemed taken aback. Not at John's joining in. What was I doing out there? Since Uber son and the 10-year-old Grand were the "better" team, we joined PF and SIL. PF wasn't happy. He grimaced when, once in the huddle, I suggested a "surprise" move: a running play! He could fake a pass to SIL or John, hand the ball to me and I would run with it.
Ah, to have a photo of the faces of chagrin at my proposal. No. No. The game was all about the pass. But a few plays later, they relented. We ran the play. I took the ball, cradled it close to my midriff, hunched over, turned and started forward. PF tells me I did well--held the ball properly to avoid a fumble and lowered my shoulder to ward off players from the other team. Only I never quite picked up any speed. "You were standing still," is the way PF describes it when my Grand gave me the two-hand tag. A few plays later, when my Grand protested that it was 4 players to 2, I was immediately traded away to his team. He was too polite to protest.
Oh Well. I didn't cross the touchdown line on my running play. Or catch a pass. Or even come close. But I had a great time. So let's score one for the grannie. She got herself out there. Point made.