Today, I'm getting to do something I've always wanted to do: See the Dallas Cowboys play on Thanksgiving. I've been to plenty of Cowboys' games, but never on Thanksgiving Day.
I had four tickets to the game two years ago, but I was discouraged from going because it was the first Thanksgiving after my father-in-law passed away. We didn't want to leave my sweet mother-in law, and I understand that.
Today, the wife and kids are joining me and I'm emotional about it. This is a nice gift from my son, who ironically is no parts of a sports fan.
I have great affection for the Cowboys' opponent today, the New Orleans Saints. This is the Saints' first Thanksgiving Day game and I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to witness it.
But I grew up a Cowboys fan. It's just part of who I am.
I guess this opportunity, combined with holiday thoughts of dearly departed loved ones, has evoked one of my most treasured yet painful childhood memories.
I was about six years old. My parents (pictured here, along with my brother) were planning a daytrip to Dallas. I was convinced they were going to the Cowboys' game. I was crying, pleading for them to take me with them. I loved the Cowboys. They assured me time and again that they were NOT going to the game. Finally, they convinced me.
Contentedly, I went about by kid business, but heard my parents whisper fighting in the kitchen. I didn't know what it was about, but it went on for some time. Finally, my mother lost her patience with the dispute, stomped her foot and shouted at my father "You cannot take that bottle of booze into the football game!"
I lost my mind. Heck, I've never recovered from it. Today, things even out. We had Thankgiving dinner at our house last night and Dear Ol' Dad was there. But I did not invite him to come to the game with us.
He wouldn't go anyway, but I get this moment.
Somewhere in heaven, my mother is laughing. Happy Thanksgiving. Sphere: Related Content