Angry Grandpas Haunt the Gridiron

Okay, I know very well that football in Canada does not thrive in the way it does south of our border. There's no need for you to remind me of that. The difference is especially evident in college football. In the U.S. it is a huge business, for us it just an amateur sport played in universities. Does that lessen my enjoyment of watching my alma mater's team play? Not at all.

I am a widower grandfather. That's not a demographic you're familiar with? Well keep reading and we'll fix that. My widower grandpa friend (I'll call him R) and I go way back. We attended grades 3 to 9 together, then my family moved to another city. But we kept in touch. He is a sterling character. He still has his medical practice. He saw both my parents through long, terminal illnesses. He volunteers three nights a week at the local hospice for end-of-life care.

As for me, I play tennis, duplicate bridge, and the piano, not necessarily in that order. In high school R wanted to play football but was not quite large enough. I was plenty large enough. I weighed twice as much as some boys, not all muscle of course, but I expect I could have been a guard. Actually in grade 9 I was asked by several people, at first politely, then a bit resentfully. I suppose the team could have used a large guard.

Why didn't I play? The piano mattered more to me. One broken finger and it would have been game over. Eventually I did undergraduate and graduate degrees in music, and worked as a music prof. Even after retiring I protect my hands. Twice I fell on long walks and both times, instinctively or consciously--I don't know which--I flung both hands behind me and broke my fall with my face. That added lots of color to my face, but I suspect I would do it again.

When we first had HD television, my wife and I tuned in to the NFL for the first time because the quality of the picture was reputed to be (and actually was) very high. While she admired the visual quality, I armchair-quarterback critiqued every play (No, they should have done an end run; that receiver was open for good yardage...). Actually now that I think of it, that term armchair quaterback isn't really correct. It's more arm-chair coaching and co-ordinating. The quaterback gets his plays from the offensive co-ordinator, who takes direction from the coach. The same is true for the defensive co-ordinator, and all three of them communicate with the players, play by play, over microphones.

But I digress. My wife thought that after 20 years of marriage, she had fathomed all of my incompetencies, the shorter list of my competencies, and my interests. "What is this?" she asked.

"Well," I explained lamely, "I understand the game, and enjoy the tactics of it, but there are so many head injuries, and it's a lot of money that could be put to better use." I didn't realize then, how my tactical knowledge of football could be put to better use, but I'll get to that in a minute, allowing those of you who object strenuously to that first sentence to vent a bit and go on.

Duplicate bridge has not caught on with this new generation of young people. As a consequence, the meetings and tournaments are filled with grandparents. For those of you who have not experienced duplicate bridge, I must explain that one's absence causes problems, whether for one's partner, or, even more severely, for the 8-person bridge that relies on having exactly eight players. I play both, regularly, actually three times each week. My Wednesday partner and I play very competitively, but congenially, and socially extrovertedly. We are often told to pipe down, to little effect. I may have a reputation for occasional over-optimism in bidding, and I may have earned it.

When I have to cancel a bridge appearance, there is skepticism in the room. "I can't play next Wednesday," I say hesitantly to my partner and the others at the table.

"Why not?" is always the reply, a mixture of scorn and resentment.

"I'm taking my granddaughter to her orchestra concert."

Immediately the tone sweetens and softens, "Oh that's all right then." And "Yes, as long as we know where you are." What they really mean is that grandchildren trump all other considerations, and that they are understood to be the priority, especially for widows and widowers.

R has no time for bridge, but he and I meet every Friday night. We watch war podcasts, criticize the strategy and the deficiencies in geopolitics, and especially talk about our own and each other's daughters and granddaughters. And it is all good, all good all of the time. I tell my daughter that if her ears are burning on a Friday night, she needn't worry or even wonder.

So now you think I am a sweet old man. Well, I might like that characterization, but all that male aggression has to come out, don't you think? And where does mine come out? In the stands around the gridiron of course. My friend and I are alums of the same university (no surprise there), and this year we have gone to four games. Our team's head coach--I'll call him Q to protect his identity--is illustrious, the winningest in the league, and the mentor of four other coaches in the conference. But he really likes to run the ball.

In some ways I can't blame him because his teams have been very successful in the past, before I became a spectator. He admitted his preference in a published interview, "I like to establish the running game," he said.

We started our first game with a great tailgate: a chafing dish and electric frying pan plugged into the car battery, some of R's colleagues from the hospice, and the sports writer from the local newspaper. The food was delicious. I contributed a salad.

R is a great communicator. When the game started, I discovered his willingness to communicate with Q right away. I think our patience lasted two plays--remember that Canadian football has only three downs, so without a gain of ten yards in the first two plays, the team usually has to turn the ball over via a punt.

R and I looked at each other. "They should have passed," I said. "Instead they ran the same lame running play twice. It didn't work either time." R's face muscles tensed up (I don't know how I looked). He stood up on the bleachers and cupped his hands in the direction of our team's bench. "Q, throw the ball!" he shouted. Coach Q turned his head to see who was shouting at him.

But our helpful advice seemed to no avail. Q continued to call running plays to no effect. Our team has the custom of sending two horses around the field at every one of their touchdowns. This had not been necessary. "The horses look bored," I commented.

R gave up on shouting. He picked up his phone and started working his thumbs vigorously. "There," he announced, "I sent Q an email!"

"What did you write?" I asked.

"Throw the ball, of course," he said.

"Do you think he'll check his email while the game is on?" I asked.

"He'd better," R remarked.

Suddenly there was a beep on his phone. "Oh listen to this," R carped. "Please do not email Coach Q during the game. He is very busy."

R was not fazed, and he replied "I will email coach Q any time it occurs to me to do so. Please tell him to THROW THE BALL!"

Well the Laurier team got the better of us that day. R sent one more email, this time to the sports reporter, pointing out that we had been outplayed on offence, defence, and certainly out-coached, for which he blamed both the offensive and defensive co-ordinators, and of course Q.

The season went on, and our team won its games. They came to my granddaughter's university. She attended the game but would not sit with me. "My friends would be upset," she remarked, justly, "but I'm sure coach Q will be excited to see you." Young people can get away with sarcasm when they say it sweetly.

Indeed he had been the object of our constructive criticism to the point of invective. I suspect it helped him greatly. I doubt the team could have won without us.

Finally we came to the quarter-final game, the coveted Yates Cup, our team versus Laurier. As we drove to Waterloo, R tuned the radio to catch a "text-in" program, like a call-in, but with texts. Suddenly he turned the volume up: "We have a text from R from Burlington. He is driving to the Yates Cup with a longtime friend. They went to grades 3 to 9 together. That's great R!" I laughed with joy, and a tear came to my eye. Not everyone is this fortunate.

As we entered the stadium, we were handed Laurier team towels, which we pocketed. Waste not, want not. No horses this time, because we were not the home team. R started helping Q right away: "Q, use your imagination!"

Hmmn, out of all the criticisms that have been hurled at football coaches, Use your imagination is hardly the worst, I think. R thought that Q had been reserving the fancier parts of the team's game for the end of the season, and that time had come.

Well the horses might have helped, but admittedly our offence and defence were outplayed, and I would say we were also out-coached. Q didn't do even a third of the plays that I called for. And yes, I yelled "Throw the ball" at the top of my lungs fifteen or twenty times. But Kudos to Laurier.

I told my bridge friends that the college season had been great while it lasted, but now it was over, done like dinner. And then, the fickle finger of football fate intervened. Since we had bought tickets at the Laurier game, we had the chance to get tickets to the final, the Vanier Cup, in Kingston! Did I want to go? R asked. Did I ever...

And so tomorrow morning I will get up early, hop in the car, and head to Kingston with my friend. Bonus, one of his children is meeting us there. Also a bonus, we have decided to cheer for Laurier, and I still have my towel. May you all have friendships like those I have been blessed with. And may you channel your aggression in harmless ways, the way an angry gridiron grandpa does. And for God's sake learn to play bridge!