Football starts tomorrow. It's this giant thing here, where no one's allowed to practice before tomorrow, except for the cheaters who practice in the coach's backyard with a "pickup" game.
All over this town, every park, every field will be filled with kids from five to twelve. And their rowdy, overzealous parents, wearing bedazzled tshirts with their sons' names on them.
We're a little excited, and by "we" I mean the children. We've been conditioning for weeks now, playing outside with all the gear on, in the sun for as long as we can bear it (about four minutes) and then every evening with Sarge the kids have been playing some kind of sport in the backyard. Because, you know, it's August, and it's Texas. Which means the only time it's bearable outside is between the hours of three and four in the morning.
But today, I pulled out the last piece of equipment that we've not been practicing with. The dreaded CUP. Being a girl with only sisters, this is a new thing to me, which evokes highly mature giggles.
I suppose that I shouldn't have fallen on the floor laughing when I pulled out the apparatus for holding the CUP in place, and the oldest child said "That looks like a diaper!"
And I guess I shouldn't be calling it a diaper, lest the other children hear us talking about a child who is nine wearing a diaper to football practice. Because I might not be the only one laughing. But yet I still find myself calling it the diaper.
But there was nothing greater than when he put on his diaper with the CUP and put on his padded pants, and exclaimed in the middle of the kitchen, "HIT ME IN THE PRIVATES! C'MON, EVERYONE HIT ME! HIT ME ANYWHERE BELOW THE WAIST! IT WON'T HURT ME!"
But his father? Wouldn't hit him. Not even a tap. Must be a guy thing.