Mom was wrong

My mother, of blessed memory, was clear.  "Jewish boys don't play football."  I tried to pass along this fact to my sons but I was constantly outnumbered and ignored.  

This time around it is my sixteen year old who made the varsity football team as a junior and would start in the Homecoming game on Friday night.  

Just as many Jews around the world were preparing for the sweet rest of Shabbat, my son would be suiting up in his armor to take down whatever opponent got in his way.  The dread I felt was greeted by my husband's sweet smile acknowledging the inevitable evening that awaited me.  As he swiftly pushed me out the door, he made sure I had a sweatshirt and that we had enough time to grab a quick bite before kickoff.  He thought he had all my possible reasons (excuses) for not going or leaving early covered.  

Finding our way into a spot in the metal bleachers took maneuvering.  People were chanting for their player and team, jumping up and down and stomping their feet.  It was loud and violent and the crunching sounds emanating from the field sent shivers up my spine.  

I thought if it got too unbearable I would  take out my phone and read the Torah portion.  How odd that I could observe Shabbat in my own way while bodies were crashing together on a field of green.

A soft nudge redirects my attention.  Tom points to the field and tells me to look for #31.  It takes me a few moments to find him under the glaring lights.  I began to watch with one eye praying that my muscular but small child wouldn't get hurt.   A few moments later I heard Tom cheering loudly like all the others.  "What happened," I said.  "Your son made a great tackle," he replied with pride.  "Listen."  A few moments  later the voice on the loud speaker confirmed his statement and turned the number into a name.  Someone patted Tom on the back.  I took a deep breath, put my sweatshirt on, my phone away, thought of my mom and cheered softly for #31.