Weirdness

I called my parents tonight to check up on Dad. He's been having trouble sleeping and has been in a lot of pain. Mom complained that he lies in bed and moans and won't get up and take a pill, which is Mom's answer for everything? Have a problem? Take a pill.

Dad went to the doctor this week and was told he's healing up nicely two weeks after the surgery and he can go back to work. This should help relieve the relieve the depression that has gripped him so tightly this past two weeks. He's happy to go back to work. He's that kind of guy. What kind of guy he isn't is a sports kind of guy. Neither is my brother. The sports fans in the family are all women.

Mom is a big fan of the Cincinnati Reds baseball team and she and her mother never missed a game whether it was on TV or on the radio. They would each listen and then it was a race to see who could get a call through first to say, "And this one belongs to the Reds," a saying not heard very often in my grandmother's latter years because the Red weren't playing at all well. One could even say they weren't playing at all, but that's another post.

Beanie and Carol are both football fans. Beanie loves the Chicago Bears and Carol is a big Cleveland Browns fan, although I'm not sure how she feels about them since the original team was bought out and are now the Baltimore Ravens (the city of Cleveland would not allow Baltimore to buy the name). Bears and Dogs for my sisters and Carol really has gone to the dogs--and cats. She has a houseful of both. I followed the Minnesota Vikings back in the old days but haven't watched my football in recent years. I have had other things to do. But I know a lot about football, having played powder puff football in junior and senior high school and even before that with the boys in our neighborhood in the park that ran down the center of the street in front of our house for a block. The center was heavily wooded but the ends were clear and dry (when it wasn't raining) and that is where I learned the fundamentals of football first hand, usually on the bottom of the pile-up. I was the only girl among hormone-filled teenage boys. Need I say more?

Mom doesn't follow football but when I called she was watching the Ohio State-Michigan State game tonight. That's the Buckeyes versus the Wolverines for those who follow such things. She was cheering the touchdowns and very involved in the score that stood at 35-31 with the Bucks in the lead. She knew to cheer for the touchdowns but kept getting upset whenever the Wolverines pushed the running back out of bounds, thinking that was the end of the Buckeyes' possession of the ball. I gave her a quick lesson (and I mean really quick because she was yelling in my ear all the time) about downs and stopping the clock and conversions and penalties. One of the players, Michigan of course, was called on a penalty for a face mask. First down for the Bucks. "What does that mean?" Mom practically yelled into the phone.

"It means the Bucks get to move the ball ten yards and have the first down."

"That's good, right?"

"Yes, Mom, that's good."

The Bucks scored a touchdown and I explained that they could run the ball in for two points or kick a field goal for one point, converting the points from 6 for the touchdown to 7 or 8 depending on what they did. She couldn't follow but she yelled out the score. "42!" Okay, they played it safe and kicked the ball right between the uprights.

This is the most worked up I've heard my mother in a long time, even though between plays when she wasn't getting upset about the backs being pushed out of bounds, she also brought me up to date on her vomiting situation. She's still vomiting. Late in the day. Bringing up breakfast. "TMI, Mom," I said just as she yelled again for some penalty call.

I talked to Dad briefly and then when Mom yelled, "What is going on? What does that mean?" he handed the phone back to Mom who promptly told me she didn't have time to talk. She was concentrating on the game.

"Okay, Mom. Goodbye. Have a good evening. Enjoy the game. Time for me to give my poor ear drums a rest so I can hear again."