Editor’s Note: This is a satire piece from The Collegian’s opinion section. Real names and the events surrounding them may be used in fictitious/semi-fictitious ways. Those who do not read the editor’s notes are subject to being offended.
Thanksgiving isn’t just a holiday about gratitude. At its core, it’s a holiday about bloodshed.
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Long have we normalized — even memorialized — a tradition not meant for regular, everyday humans like us. We try to mimic the gods, these untouchables who dominate the upper echelons of their careers. We pretend our 55-year-old fathers can still throw touchdowns like Aaron Rodgers without throwing out their backs. We wash down our pain and torment with gravy and pumpkin pie afterward.
I’m talking about the Thanksgiving family football match. Old, rickety and annoying as hell, this tradition needs to retire more than Joe Flacco. Trust me — I have witnessed the repercussions firsthand.
Consider my story a plea for help: We must stop this yearly display of midlife masculinity crises before more people get hurt.
Last year, because the Vikings didn’t play that Thanksgiving, my family took it upon themselves to start a football game of their own outside. Though this seems like a relatively normal decision, my grandparents were hosting, and their house sits atop a steep hill unfit for such man-child behavior.
My dad, naturally the quarterback, snapped the football at the top of the hill. It spiraled into the hands of my grandpa, who began to totter down the “field.” I was the ref because I wanted to reclaim all the mansplaining I endured over my 20 years on Earth. But the events that ensued unfolded before my eyes like a premonition, and no blowing of my whistle could stop the bloodbath.
It almost happened in slo-mo: My grandpa fumbled the ball, voice curdling and fingers dancing like a turkey call. My sister, a player for the opposing team — called “Souzas aren’t Louzas” — surged forward to catch it. She succeeded, swiftly pocketing and pivoting around my grandpa to run uphill. Her first step upward landed in dog shit.
At least, I think it was dog shit. Though, it looked a little more wild to me.
Either way, it was a mudslide, a complete brownout. Her foot smeared backward, falling out from under her, and she hit the ground with a cry. The football jumped upward.
My grandpa was still recovering from his fumble all the while — not physically recovering but mentally. He used to be a starting running back for his high school football team, so these Thanksgiving football games meant a lot to him; they were both his redemption and training arcs.
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Yes — training. His future retirement home prospects were determined by the prestige of their tackle football leagues, so he needed to get drafted on a team with good mobility and few dentures. And besides, my grandpa thought playing football was the best way to go out by far.
As my sister writhed on the ground and my grandpa stood frozen, my mom swept in. She caught the ball mid-air and rushed forward past my sister. The only thing that stood between her and the endzone was my dad.
As the two collided and my mom tried to push forward, my grandma came up from behind and somehow ripped the ball from her hand. I blew my whistle, but none of them heard me. They continued tackling until I heard the sickening thwack of a fist hitting a face.
My dad reeled backward, hand over his nose, which had begun gushing blood. He turned to my mom with a disgusted look, saying, “Your mom just hit me!”
My grandma, who still had the ball, ran toward my mom and stiff-armed her. As she surged forward, however, grandma’s foot also sunk into dog or wild turkey shit. She hit the ground.
That’s how I ended up driving my whole family to the hospital, all because of a stupid Thanksgiving football game. This holiday season, don’t make the same mistakes I did; it just isn’t worth the pain. I’d even take the annual Thanksgiving political debate over whatever this shit show was, and that’s saying something.
Reach Emma Souza at letters@collegian.com or on Twitter @_emmasouza.
