Moral Support

Tonight is my son's first football game. I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am.

"Devon, you never did tell me what time your game is...I kind of need to know that."

"I'm not sure. I'll check after dinner."

"Ok. I need to have time to pick up the shirts."

He looked up from his pot roast, the first hint of worry in his eyes.

"What shirts?"

"The ones I had made. You know, for everyone to wear."

From hint of worry to beginnings of panic.

"Wait. Who's everyone?"

"Well, everyone. Your grandparents, aunt Penny, uncle Steve, Lindsay, Megan-"

"Wait...the same Megan who spits on people when she talks? The one who shows her hernia to anyone who doesn't run screaming?"

"Maybe. Don't be mean."

"And what shirts? What are you planning?"

"Nothing! I love you. I want to be supportive. So, I bought Virginia a shirt that says, #63 Is My Big Brother, and Chris' says, #63 Is My Stepson and everyone else's just says, Go #63!, on it. Harmless."

"Oh, my God. What does yours say?"

"Um. Well, you'll see. Don't worry about it."

"Mom, WHAT DOES IT SAY?"

"Oh, fine. Ruin the surprise. It says, "#63 Is My Baby". Happy?"

He clapped one hand over his face.

"Oh, hell. Please tell me you're kidding."

"Watch your mouth. I guess this means you don't want me to bring the banners and blinkies?"

"Gah!" He stood up and stomped back to the bedroom.

I was not discouraged.

"Don't think for one second that after all this choreography we're not doing the wave, though!" I shouted after him.

He reappeared a few minutes later and sat back down to dinner.

"My game is at 7:30."

I checked. His game is at 5:30. Little stinker.