Fall, Football and Chili
OCTOBER 27, 2007 Listen to this Story
- fall, football and fun
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When Eric Marty of Omaha, Neb., was a kid, his father took him to a football game. This wouldn't normally be exceptional, except for the fact that his father was a surgeon who thought football was far too dangerous a sport to play. Futhermore, as a surgeon, he didn't often have time to take his son many places. Eric recounts his memories of that day at the game and of the cherished one-on-one with his dad.
Eric Marty's letter to Weekend America
Each year, on the first truly cold Saturday of fall, I am reminded of the time my dad took me to a college football game.
My dad did not really have an interest in football. He was a surgeon, there was no time, and it was too dangerous. But one year, one fall, one truly cold Saturday (I must have been 7 or 8 years old), he took me to a game at his alma mater.
Leaving mother, brother and sister behind, we drove twenty miles north over the gentle, long hills of mid-Missouri. I sat in the passenger seat of his gold Mercedes on slick black meshed leather, sliding back and forth with each turn. The leaves had already turned, and mostly fallen. It would have been loud as we walked to the stadium from the parking lot: a marching band, tailgaters, fraternities, the amassing crowd. But this memory is packaged in a pillow. And so it is - I don't remember a sound.
Dad brought chili in a working-man's green Stanley thermos and carried it by the handle like a lunch pail up the rows and concrete steps. We spread a red and black flannel blanket on the cold aluminum bleachers. He let me hold the thermos to keep warm. At half-time, we opened it. Warm spicy vapors rose and curled obeyingly into my nose. Eating one at-a-time, we each had a cupful of chili from the lid of the thermos using spoons he'd brought from home and kept in his coat pocket. When we were finished we licked them clean.
We left the game early. It seems that we walked away holding hands, but I don't remember for sure. I had another cup of chili on the way home, careful not to spill, still sliding across the seat.
I don't remember who won that game. We didn't really care about football. I was infatuated with the possession of my father's attention and he was happy to give it to me. That I would probably not again spend that amount of time with him for some months never crossed my mind. It simply was. And so patiently, over the years, we made lasting memories. Maybe only one or two each year, but I've come to appreciate them all the more. Those things we did a hundred times I can still recall, but not so clearly as the thermos of chili and spoons from home in his warm coat pocket.
We never went to another game together, and I've never wished we would've. If I have a son, I will try my best to find that old green Stanley thermos...or should I?
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- Music Bridge:
- Nothing Owed
- Artist: Bonobo
- CD: Dial "M" for Monkey (Ninja Tune)
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