To everything there is a season. This is pigskin season.

My son played his last football game of the year today.  At the end of a crushing 30 to 0 loss, there was a range of emotions from players, parents, and coaches.  Some of the boys on the team were crying.  Some of them were hugging each other.  Still others were giving high-fives.  Parents were shaking hands and thanking coaches for a great season.  Tomorrow, we will turn in pads and helmets and padded pants. We will start to mentally prepare for basketball season, the tryouts for which coincide with football uniform turn-in day.

Football is in my son’s DNA. I used to joke with others that if he had to choose between breathing and football, he would turn blue before dropping the ball.  In a way, I was only half-joking, so great is his passion for the game.  Some parents encourage – force, even – their child to participate in a sport.  That is not the case in our house.  My son is one of the first ones at practice every day and one of the last ones to leave. He idolizes Tom Brady and can quote statistics from the New England Patriots in such a way that would make Siri jealous.  (If you’re interested in learning more about my son’s beloved Patriots, click here)

I’m a stereotypical small-town football mom.  I wear my glittery shirt with “football mom” emblazoned on the front.  I wash stinky pads and fill water jugs before practice. I have my own special foldable chair that I cart to the field on game days. I ask all the wrong questions.  It usually goes like this:

My son:  “We would have won if our defense was better.”

Me:  “Wait, I thought you were on offense?”

My son:  “No, mom, that’s when we have the ball.”

Me:  “Well, how am I supposed to know where the ball is?  They need to paint it pink with feathers and glitter.  You all look the same out there.”

I took my son and two of his friends to the skating rink today to celebrate the end of the football season.  They sat in the backseat and sang rap songs.  They discussed the likelihood that they can all have an epic video game battle later.  They talked about which girl named Mercedes is prettier, Mercedes A. or Mercedes M.?

This, friends, is the season of life that we’re in, hovering on the cusp between fall and winter, football and basketball, boyhood and the teen years.  It’s the fine line of crying in mom’s arms when we suffer a crushing loss on the football field, and being too manly to cry, even when a pretty girl breaks our heart.

On the football field, they call my son “Speedy,” because he’s the fastest kid on the team.  To me, though, the greatest name I can call him will always be my little boy.  Don’t grow up too fast, son.  Days like today are a much-needed reminder to all of us to slow down and enjoy the season of life we’re in, even when that season involves pigskins, padded pants, and epic losses on the field.  For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.

Find the link to this song here.