Football has been a part of my life as far back as I can remember. Some of my earliest memories are of me in my John “Riggo” Riggins jersey nightgown. Yes, even in this miserable season for D.C. football, I can admit that I’m a born-and-raised ‘Skins fan. (Incidentally, it was several years before I learned that not every team had transvestite fans who wear pig snouts to every game. We’re special — that’s just for us.)
I must admit too that I didn’t quite *get* football at first. Touchdowns were irrelevant to me. The players on the field simply weren’t doing their job if there wasn’t a huge pile of players on top of each other when the whistle blew. That’s when I cheered. The bigger the pile-up, the better. Hence, I was usually rooting for fumbles/recoveries, no matter which team had dropped or recovered the ball.
I was 5 years old when I learned the true meaning of football. We were visiting my grandmother, who lived in a sixth-floor condo in Alexandria, Va. It was a gorgeous day and my cousin Lee (also 5) and I were not content to enjoy it from her balcony, so my uncle Rick agreed to take us to a grassy area on the grounds of the complex for a game of football.
The teams we fielded were small: two-man… no, actually one team had one and a half men (Rick and Lee) and the other team was me and Rick’s Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Jackson.
I don’t remember how the defining play began, but somehow I had the ball (Jackson passed it to me?) and I was careening towards the edge of the patch of grass that had been indicated as an end zone. Lee was only 7 months younger than me, but he was also seven inches shorter for quite awhile. He was firmly clamped around my waist (Jackson was probably sniffing something really interesting).
And so, my cousin dragging along beside me and my uncle hooting at the site of it all, I scored my first touchdown.
Big props to Denise Levenick at The Family Curator for her Genealogy and Family History Bloggers Alamanac, which proposed “Touchdown Tales” as today’s writing prompt.