The NFL season has officially begun. The determination Thursday afternoon to get everything done in time for that night’s Chiefs win was awesome. The boys’ banter grew louder Sunday morning, their complaints about homework and remote learning and chores silenced by the anticipation of football season… here at last.
Yet soon after midnight on this first Sunday, our 17-year-old stood at the edge of our bed. “Mom?” he whispered just loud enough to wake me and with that edge in his voice that warns of late-night tears.
He had been so proud earlier as his Green Bay Packer team racked up the points. Giddy with the return of the game, the possibilities of a new season, a healthy Aaron Rodgers, a better-than-ever Davante Adams. A 43-34 win!
He had enthusiastically embraced Dad’s decree that this particular die-hard fan had to celebrate every time the Packers scored with the number of sit-ups and push-ups reflected on the scoreboard. Who knew it would be….
The first seven were easy. The next fourteen not too bad. He grinned through it. 43-34! He boasted about the team even as his arms tired.
But later, with the house dark and the sound of his own cheers fading over the cruelty of a sleepless night, this six-foot-one teenager was desperate for help.
“Mom,” he whispered again, “My arms hurt so bad, I can’t sleep.”