Fly Eagles Fly
We are not a sports family. Once, Vincent and I won a trip to the Superbowl on the Wednesday before the game, and we had to ask who was playing - it was in Atanta, the second matchup of the Bills and the Cowboys. I was rooting for the Bills, and bet pints of beer on the game with the Texans seated all around us. The Cowboys won, I was out $60 in beer money, and while I was sad, we had a good time.
But my son - my little four year old boy - was intriguied by the Superbowl this year. His preschool teachers gave him an Eagles pin, which he wore with pride leading up to the game. Now the boy has never actually SEEN a football game, but he wanted to know all about this one. Of course we were going to watch - we always do, and I love the commercials - but this year, we got green and white cupcakes and my kids learned the Eagles fight song and sang it with glee all day on Sunday. Even Bella learned the words.
When they went to bed, the Eagles were in the lead.
So when my husband and I watched their disappointing loss last night to the Pats (a team I regularly root for, mind you) I was heartsick. Not for the city without a single Superbowl victory, basically a place for "not-quite" and "we-mighta-if we'd only..." sports enterprises, but for my little boy.
My husband and I sat on the couch talking about how sad we were going to be to have to tell our son that, despite the cheering and dancing and singing, the Eagles had lost the Big Game. There would be no day off of school on Tuesday for the Big Parade. I lay awake in bed thinking about the excitement that would inevitably be in his eyes when he woke up, and how it was my job to teach him a lesson about the reality of winning and losing. That's what mothers do - we hold their tiny little hands each time they lose a little bit of the Magic - the magic of wishing stars and believing if you want something enough, that it will always come to you.
Yes, it was just a game, and he took the loss in stride. But my heart broke just a little bit this morning, watching tiny speckles of Magic drift away from my little boy's eyes.
But my son - my little four year old boy - was intriguied by the Superbowl this year. His preschool teachers gave him an Eagles pin, which he wore with pride leading up to the game. Now the boy has never actually SEEN a football game, but he wanted to know all about this one. Of course we were going to watch - we always do, and I love the commercials - but this year, we got green and white cupcakes and my kids learned the Eagles fight song and sang it with glee all day on Sunday. Even Bella learned the words.
When they went to bed, the Eagles were in the lead.
So when my husband and I watched their disappointing loss last night to the Pats (a team I regularly root for, mind you) I was heartsick. Not for the city without a single Superbowl victory, basically a place for "not-quite" and "we-mighta-if we'd only..." sports enterprises, but for my little boy.
My husband and I sat on the couch talking about how sad we were going to be to have to tell our son that, despite the cheering and dancing and singing, the Eagles had lost the Big Game. There would be no day off of school on Tuesday for the Big Parade. I lay awake in bed thinking about the excitement that would inevitably be in his eyes when he woke up, and how it was my job to teach him a lesson about the reality of winning and losing. That's what mothers do - we hold their tiny little hands each time they lose a little bit of the Magic - the magic of wishing stars and believing if you want something enough, that it will always come to you.
Yes, it was just a game, and he took the loss in stride. But my heart broke just a little bit this morning, watching tiny speckles of Magic drift away from my little boy's eyes.
posted by Stolidoli at 9:55 AM
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