The NFL

Vikki and I chose the “Surprise!” option. We waited, sometimes patiently, sometimes impatiently, for the arrival of our bouncing baby to be determined. It was a girl. Sophia. On Father’s Day, no less. The ultimate gift.

The second time around, we went the other way. 18 months later, we knew. We had photographic evidence. Miles was on the way. A boy.

A matched set. One of each.

I was immediately planning tea parties and trips to the Big Apple, during which we would take our daughter, clad in the traditional red velvet Christmas dress with white tights and black, patent-leather shoes, to attend the NUTCRACKER at New York City Ballet.

I bought a football. I wanted to play catch in the snow with my son the day we brought him home. Miles and Daddy. Father and Son. Me and him. He and I. The men. I couldn’t wait. I know Super Bowl tickets are expensive, but we have to go. I’ll buy him a beer. I don’t care if he is 21 or not. I think any boy attending the Super Bowl with his father ought to be able to have a beer. Anything less is un-American.

I read every book I could find about parenting. Dr. Spock. James Dobson. Even Max Lucado. Surely he has published something about being a daddy.

Guess what I discovered? There is no manual. You have to live it. Advice is egregiously overrated and frequently unnecessary.

Alright. I’ll find my way.

What kind of example do I want to set for our daughter and our son? Hhhmmm.

“Be twice as good as your daddy and half as good as your mama and you’ll be great.”

I said it. A lot. But I quickly realized there had to be something more.

“Maxim.” A wonderfully inappropriate magazine. For men. I had a subscription. Beautiful women on the cover. Irreverent writing. Humor. Alcohol. Sports. Sex. Clothes. (I was, and remain, curious about what skinny guys wear and how big boys might find the same options in grownup sizes.)

Sophia was sleeping in the crib at the foot of our bed. I looked up from the latest issue and realized I didn’t want my daughter to think my love for her was dependent on her ability to look like the women in “Maxim.”

I dialed the 800 number and canceled my subscription. I walked to the bathroom, gathered the stack of unread issues and tossed everything into the trash can.

Good for me. I didn’t want to be “that guy.” This is my last chance to be a hero. I want to be Mr. Incredible. A beginning.

Miles… THIS is the NFL. (Say it in your best James Earl Jones voice.) Football. I started explaining everything. “We’re for the Panthers. Your Nannie loved the Cowboys. Your mother doesn’t care. John Rushton played for the Dolphins.” There was SO much I wanted to tell him.

He threw a block at me and laughed.

Oh, son. I can’t wait to share this with you.

Greg Hardy. A defensive end with Carolina. Arrested on charges of domestic violence.

Wow. The franchise did not, in my view, respond quickly nor emphatically.

Was this the kind of example I wanted to set for my son? You can beat a woman and keep your million-dollar job because you’re a professional athlete.

Nope. No way. No how. I was disappointed.

I made the declaration, “The people in this house are not watching NFL games this year. We’re protesting. There are plenty of people without felony arrests or convictions that would love to play pro football. Why don’t they hire some of those guys?”

Sophia was dancing in the living room. Miles was practicing with his Harry Potter wand. Vikki asked me to help set the table.

Well, so much for that.

“Were y’all listening? We’re done with the NFL for this year!”

“Fine. Wingardium leviosa. Daddy, do you like my dance?”

I put my Julius Peppers jersey in storage and the season passed.

The Panthers traded Greg Hardy to Dallas. Linebacker Thomas Davis was named the NFL’s Walter Payton Man Of the Year. I listened to his acceptance speech. Davis spoke of character and responsibility and community.

Bravo. I bought Miles a Luke Kuechly jersey. My protest shriveled to an unexpectedly quiet ending. NFL games are back in the rotation.

“Miles, come here. Let’s watch. Do you think they’ll run or pass? What would you do?”

Sophia was not as enamored with the spectacle as her baby brother. “Will Wake play the Panthers?”

“No. Honey. Two different leagues. Come here, let’s watch.”

“Daddy, we need to practice our dance…”

“We will. I promise.”

I spent the rest of the game twirling and dipping in the kitchen and visiting the couch to explain why going for it on 4^th and 23 from your own 18 is probably a bad idea.

Good times.

The Super Bowl. Kansas City and San Francisco. I don’t care about either team, really.  February 2. My birthday.

The plan: Go to church. Come home. Eat. Take a nap. Get snacks and food and drinks and all that good stuff. Settle in for an evening of commercials and entertainment and football.

The National Football League has always presented itself as family entertainment. Howard Cosell to Carrie Underwood. Mean Joe Green to Peyton Manning. Up With People to Michael Jackson.

The league NEEDS fathers and sons to watch the games together. The league is built upon little kids wearing jerseys who will eventually grow into big kids wearing jerseys.

The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders have been the standard of dance groups, spirit squads and cheer teams for decades.

The rivalries. The coaches. The fans. The commentators. The traditions.

Contrary to popular opinion, football is America’s game.

Legends. Villains. Heroes. Stories. Modern day gladiators.

Whitney Houston’s rendition of THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER is one of the most memorable performances of any song, at any time, in any place.

So…

Jennifer Lopez and Shakira. Again, I don’t care. Not really.

It happened. I’ve watched and read the post-performance proclamations from near and far.

“I hope I can move like that when I’m 50. They’re sluts. Hips don’t lie. That was un-Christian. If you don’t like it, don’t let your children watch.”

Alright. Enough with the ugly words. Everybody stop.

Don’t blame J Lo and Shakira. They did what they were asked to do. Fair enough.

Beautiful people? Absolutely.

Talented? Yes.

Energy level off the charts? No question.

Technically, the show bordered on perfection.

Here is my problem…

Did the NFL put a price tag on its integrity? Was that performance appropriate for families? What kind of example have we set when everything is for sale?

How much did Pepsi pay for right to sponsor the halftime show? $25 million? $50 million? I don’t know. I hope it was worth it.

I would offer no objection if that performance took place six nights a week in Vegas.

If Vikki and Sophia and Miles were not a part of my life and I was watching the big game with “the guys…” Sure. I’d probably think an impure thought or two and express my gratitude for 65 inch 4K televisions.

You want sex appeal? Who doesn’t? Tina Turner is ridiculously sexy and I’ve never been embarrassed to sit beside my wife and watch Miss Turner perform PROUD MARY.

One of the first rules of the stage: If a woman wants to be seductive, cover it up.

I don’t want it if they’re giving it away for free.

Fact is, Vikki, Sophia and Miles are my life. I’m a father. And a husband. I am responsible for what my children see (and say and do and everything else.)

I am responsible for teaching a little girl that she doesn’t have to shake what the good Lord gave her to earn the respect, affection and devotion of a man.

I am responsible for teaching a little boy that he should value faith. Intellect. Common sense. Compassion. Honesty. Loyalty.

Son, there is so much more to a woman than boobs and butt.

I don’t want our children to identify the strength of a woman by counting the number of pelvic thrusts completed in four minutes.

I don’t want our children to define ladylike behavior as that of spinning on a stripper pole.

Thrust your pelvis any which way you want, with whomever you want. That’s your business. It worked for Elvis. He was fully dressed, too.

Mount a pole in your bedroom and make your husband’s wildest fantasy come true.

Not a problem.

When the National Football League, one of the world’s largest and most consistent producers of family entertainment, brings a performance targeted at an adult audience and plants it in my living room… that is a problem.

I object.

I fully expected Sophia to start duplicating the gyrations before the second half kickoff. Miles said, “Dad-O, I think her boobs are gonna fly out if she’s not careful.”

“Me, too, son. Me too.”

Closing the electrifying performances with a stage full of kids? Seriously? Come on, now. I’m about as free-spirited and open-minded as they come. That was a bit much.

The line wasn’t crossed, it was obliterated. The National Football League got what it wanted.

Dear NFL, will you let my children, be children? We don’t have them for long. The world wants our babies to be grown long before we wish to let them go. Innocence is fleeting.

You can’t have it both ways. The NFL is family entertainment, or it isn’t. Don’t publish stories about Patrick Mahomes’ faith and couple it with a halftime performance that was anything but G-rated.

Which is it? Make your choice.

Sophia and Miles are watching.