pineapple man, part 2 ... football

Given the events of the previous day, I entered dad's hospital room with a heavy heart, a dread more ominous than the day's date: Halloween. God carried me, yet I still felt the burden of spending another day with my fragile, weak, confused father.

I cried again. And so did he. I helped with his breakfast, though this time I let him feed himself. How would he ever re-learn the task if I did it for him? Slowly, shakily, he ate eggs and toast, spilling a part of it on his gown.

As a young girl, I often found my dad parked in front of the TV on weekend afternoons. I'd walk through the family room.

"Whatcha watching?" I'd ask, feigning interest.

"Football." Obviously.

"Who's winning?" like I cared.

I really only wanted a bit of my dad's weekend. A walk in the woods, a game of cards, an outing to get ice cream. And he did some of those, sometimes. But he worked hard, often travelling during the week. I now realize he must have been exhausted. But in my 10-year-old mind, it seemed football was of more interest to him, and I resented that. It's no wonder I have never, ever really liked football.

On this day, a Saturday, I scanned the sports page I'd brought for him. The Arkansas Razorbacks, dad's favorite team, were slated to play at 3:00 p.m.

"Dad! Guess who's playing this afternoon?"
"The hawgs?" he grinned weakly.
"Bingo! Let's watch it!"

And so we sat, dad in a hospital bed and me on the edge of a chair beside him, watching football. I cheered the touchdowns and pretended to understand the plays and strategies. His Arkansas Razorbacks, the very thing I resented so long ago, brought unity and focus between us. I didn't care two hoots about the game. But my feeble narration seemed to pull him back to me.

I cried. Again.

And I laughed at the irony. Only our great God could show such tenderness in this way: to build a bridge from the thing I care least about: football, to one I love so much: my father.