PenPenWrites

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.