A few years ago, on a whim, I bought a $17 football at Fred Meyer. Yes, I know that I'm a novelist and playwright who owns an art gallery. Nevertheless, I love playing football. (Watching it, however, bores me to tears.)
I love the smell of the leather rubbing off on your hands. I love the painful slap as the ball comes in for a hard landing. I love the way the body feels after being stretched in all those directions after playing for a while. I love the poetry of a graceful pass, spiraling slowly through the air, almost as if it is hanging there, like a thought too beautiful to contemplate all at once.
I also love running passing plays with Manya first thing in the morning.
Yes, I know. It sounds odd. However, that is what we do. We run 5 yard, 8 yard, 10 yard, 15 yard, even 20 yard passing plays in the street out in front of our home. Typically, Manya starts as quarterback (she has excellent placement up to 15 yards), I as running back. After a set of four passing plays, we switch.
And the plays themselves? Oh, 10 (or however many yards) and Outs, Breaks (left and right), Hooks, Crosses, Slides, Sweeps and whatever else we dream up.
Our neighbors, tis true, thought us a bit eccentric. At least, at first. Then, they began to notice how fit and trim we were growing, which inspired them to start exercising more themselves. These days, they think we're cool, particularly in the heat of July and August when Manya is playing in her sassy short shorts and sports bra. (Passing cars tend to slow around that time of year. Can't imagine why.) By that time, my winter pudginess has usually burnt off, so I play shirtless, enjoying those rare kisses of a cooling breeze on an otherwise blistering day.
All in all, such play paints the day in a whole new, happier light.
But not for everyone.
For I've long noticed that footballs tend to arouse strong emotions in others, either of squirmy discomfort or of withering contempt. The problem? For some reason, girls aren't supposed to play with footballs.
I know because people keep telling us that. Yes, they will stop their cars and actually make some comment to that effect. Typically, it's nothing more than a thumbs up or the exclamation, "You guys are great!" But, that's just it. People feel like they have to comment. As if we are staging a protest or something.
Sometimes, I'm sorry to say, the comment is more of a sneer. This morning, a Seattle Utilities worker slowly drove his massive truck all the way down the block, making us wait for him. When he drew up near us, he actually stopped and jeered, "Pretty good pass for a girl."
From whence is such antipathy derived?
Well, also this morning, two recently arrived neighborhoods boys completed what must be their third inspection of this unsettling practice of a woman handling a football. And from the sour expressions on their faces, it is quite clear they are not very happy about it.
They must be all of seven or eight years old, on their way to the bus stop for school. As they draw near, I am amused to see them deliberately choose not to see Manya throw or catch. It's as if seeing a woman handle a football with such casual command is best not acknowledged.
Then, as they continue ambling down the street and near to me, the older one especially, looks at me with a very suspicious glance as if I am betraying some fundamental order of the universe. This morning, when I said, "Good morning!" he grunted in response.
Such ossified thinking in one so young. I can only sigh.
But then Manya has just lofted her latest beautiful, spiraling pass, and I am running to catch it with a loopy grin on my face.
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