Dear College Football,
This may come as a shock to you, but I am not a fan of bringing my children to your games.
I know, I know, you are shaking your helmet-clad head in disbelief that someone does not bow down to your graces every Saturday in the fall. I see you through the TV screen every Saturday, with your pillared columns in the background and your undergraduate patriots, signs in hand, competing for their five seconds of fame behind the sportscasters’ desk. What could be worse, you ask? How can a non-fan also happen to be a Texan? I can hear you now: “Well, paint me green and call me a Christmas tree, this darling doesn’t hoot and holler for our team!” Now before you go and declare my opinion to be catawampus, let me explain why I will not return to your place of worship with children in tow.
I gave you a chance. I took a leap of faith and made the pilgrimage to watch you do what you do best. Deep down in my mama heart, I knew I was crazy—the kind of crazy that sits outside the Apple Store for hours on end in hopes of getting a phone that is 100% toddler proof. My husband adores you and basically plans his weekends according to your schedule, so I threw him a bone, put a smile on my face, and went along. In case you were wondering, the “less involved” fan (ahem, me) apparently is on duty during your event so that the Super Fan can pay attention and use all the vibes, cheers, calls, prayers of players past, and positive juju to hopefully make a difference in the speed of a 19-year-old sprinting down the field. I’m pretty sure he can’t hear us from our last-minute nosebleed seats. Correction: I know he cannot hear us or else he’d catch the ball more frequently and end up in that coveted area where they dance, beat their chests, and increase the score.
In all fairness, I gave you my unwavering support throughout my four years as an undergraduate. I bought the gear, shook the pompoms, defended you when you went 4–8, and bragged to anyone who would listen that I walked across the stage at the university printed across the backs of your jerseys. My job title has changed a few times since I stood in the stands as a student (and paid the student prices), and I feel it’s necessary to explain to you why my new title as Mom makes me see things a little differently now.
Let me remind you that I spend all week explaining the importance of manners, kind acts, clean hands, and brushed hair to three little bodies that are under the age of four. Excuse me for not wanting to undo my hard week’s work by bringing them to an event that closely resembles a spectacle from the Coliseum days. Not to mention my having to explain the guys who, amid all the yelling and cheering, seem to have “fallen asleep” in the chairs in front of us. Here is a sound byte of what five minutes into a game with three children under four sounds like:
“Yes, sweetie, you are correct, he did forget to wear his shirt to the game.”
“Yes, honey, this must be his nap time.”
“No, it is not safe to fall asleep with a cup in your hand.”
“I do not know why the man with food in his beard is yelling so much.”
“Yes, it does look like there are zebras on the field.”
“No, the cotton candy stand is not open yet.”
“I’m not sure why the girls forgot their recess shorts under their dresses.”
“I don’t know why the birds are flying around so much; they must be watching the game.”
“Yes, we are up high, but I don’t think our heads our touching heaven.”
“I don’t think those boys came from art class; they probably painted their stomachs in their rooms.”
“No, you cannot pet the mascot.”
“It is not Halloween yet, so I do not know why those kids are wearing masks.”
“Santa Claus is not coming tonight.”
“We are not on a farm; those ducks belong to the school.”
“That’s not apple juice. Put it down.”
You fulfill your duties of representing an educational institution well in terms of entertainment. You garner crowds of outrageous numbers, encourage team spirit, and nourish community bonding over endless games of corn hole, beer pong, and flip cup. Some participants in these activities show their dedication to you by dressing up as mascots for the day. However, when you decide to play a game at 2:30 P.M. in the blazing Southern sun, that devoted fan who is dressed as a fuzzy bird may not quite make it to the first quarter. They take up residence in the shade of the first aid room, the nearest tent, or their roommate’s car. Never mind the possible heat stroke, dehydration, and dizziness on your biggest fans’ part. They will feel as if they failed you and vow to come back stronger next week, showing more gusto, courage, and bravado in hopes of actually making it to game time. While I do not foresee my children wanting to be college mascots when they grow up, I can certainly say that I will try my hardest to make sure they don’t end up on the “What Not to Wear: Mascot Edition” of their college newspaper. You may think that I just fell off the turnip truck, but your game day shenanigans are not something I want my kids to jump into. While I do respect the long standing traditions that many families take part in, I have no desire to start incorporating the team’s colors into my wardrobe and pulling up a chair at the tailgate for the annual Thanksgiving/football dinner. I can respect your purpose from afar while my toddlers are busy finger painting and fighting over which Daniel Tiger character they are pretending to be that day. They may eventually attend a full game and perhaps may even grow up to be your biggest fans, but before we I commit to a 4+ hour activity of your kind, my kids need to be able to read the words on the concession stand menu.
I may ache for my college years from time to time, but life with little humans is completely different. Being back in a college city/town makes the nostalgia rise to the surface and pull a little at the carefree times of yore. We are officially the “old” people, stuck somewhere between college and mid-life, trying desperately to relive our best times. We don’t make it onto the big screen because we are not exciting enough. We don’t have our bellies painted and in fact are fully clothed. You are good at making us feel young again. You succeed in making us forget for a nanosecond that we don’t like Boone’s Farm. But you are not with us on Sundays. You are not there at 6:00 A.M. when the children wake up (thanks to all the ice cream and cotton candy we bribed them with), and you aren’t there to prepare for the coming week. You reign over the TV networks on Saturdays just as your big brothers in the NFL take on Sundays.
Don’t get me wrong: I will proudly cheer for my alma mater (and whoever happens to have the prettiest uniforms that day). I do think you bring out a sense of loyalty and togetherness among alumni; however, I don’t feel the need to be present to show my support. I am 100% fine with wishing you lots of luck this season from the comfort of my own home. Don’t take it personally if I often mute you to hear the latest rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”—I now have my own halftime show to attend to.
