The hot winds of August usher in football practice for our eight year old son, Zion. This week he straps on his pads and goes out to “bust some heads.”
My wife and I often laugh because Zion is such a boy’s boy. He seeks out ways to get dirty and stinky and football is the perfect vehicle for that. Football gives him the license to hit and be hit and on that field he can be the boy that the four walls at home can’t support.
Each night for two hours he can run, hit and smash in to other eight and nine year olds and he is like a pig in mud. When he walks off the field I help him out of his shoulder pads. The stink that rises from him could cripple a full grown elk.
On the short ride home, he tells me who he hit, how he got to run the ball, and about the leg lifts he just hates. He shares what the coaches told him and he is excited , he is boy, and he is happy. Zion continues to tell me how he will play for the Arizona Cardinals someday because he likes the Arizona weather that he has never experienced.
August blows in tomorrow’s memories and for two hours each night during the week I get to watch Zion grow and dream.