With Thanksgiving Day right around the comer, I can’t help but reminisce about all the great Thanksgivings of my childhood.
And I always think of football when I think of the holiday, but far more importantly, I’m reminded of my family and loved ones around me.
My parents have been divorced and happily remarried since I was really young, so my Thanksgivings probably looked a little bit different than yours, but in my mind, no one had it better.
It always started out by traveling to my greatgrandmother’s house, where we gathered with about 60 family members to celebrate and share a meal.
And for those who don’t know, it’s a long-standing NFL tradition that the Detroit Lions and Dallas Cowboys both play home games on Thanksgiving.
So, while we’d wait for everyone to arrive to the house, a lot of the guys would always gather together in the back room and watch the Detroit Lions play in the early television slot.
We’d talk about everything going on in the sports world and catch up on everyday life, occasionally pausing conversation to admire a play.
And then we’d get the news that everyone had arrived, so we’d all migrate to the living room to pray for the meal.
That prayer can be the sweetest part of the day, or the most dreaded part, and it all depends on who gives it.
It could’ve been someone sweet such as my greatgrandfather, great grandmother, grandmother or her siblings. Heck it could even be someone straightforward such as my dad or one of his cousins, but the one person you’d never want to ask is my grandpa.
His nickname is Big Fruit, if that’s any indication of his goofy nature, and he’s probably one of the best evangelists I know, but my goodness the man can talk.
Longwinded might be an understatement, so if he gets the prayer nod you might as well get comfortable wherever you are because you could end up receiving the entire family genealogy, a couple of miracles stories and anything else you can think of.
But if you’re lucky you’ll get someone else up to pray and get to the meal quickly. And then after that, the ladies get in line first for the meal and then you slide in line yourself.
Turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, rolls, cranberry sauce, deviled eggs and every kind of casserole imaginable is at your fingertips.
I’ d always load up my plate with as much as possible, even to the point of stacking things on top of each other.
Once I finished off that I’d get a second plate of food, and then after that I’d hit the dessert bar. Apple, pumpkin, cherry, chocolate and pecan pies; cookies; brownies and candied grapes, and anything else you can imagine.
I sample everything of course and then get a piece of the best tasting desserts that year.
After I’m done partaking in the stuffing of my face, it’s time for the moment my older brother and I have been waiting for all day, a game of two-touch football.
My brother and I used to take pride in that game, and we looked forward to playing in it every year. We would play with and against a couple of our boy relatives that were close in age and a few of the younger men.
We might have been 500 pounds heavier than usual, but we always left it all out there on that front lawn, gasping for air out in the cold of November.
We would draw up imaginary routes on the back of our football in our mini huddle and call defensive coverages in between plays.
We’d play always for an hour at least, simply losing track of time because of the fun we were having and whether we were winning or losing, that didn’t change.
Before we knew it, it was time for my parents to take my older brother and I a couple of hours on the road to our other set of parent’s thanksgiving celebration, and every time we’d leave, we’d take the stench of outside with us, along with grass and stickers on our clothes.
Once we made it to our other parent’s Thanksgiving dinner at their lake house, we’d watch the Dallas Cowboys game and have another meal, plus dessert of course.
We’d laugh and play games together to end the night usually to wrap up an action-packed day.
And while I vaguely remember the scores of the football games we watched andplayed in, it doesn’t come close to my memory of the people I was surrounded by and the moments with them.
Because that’s what Thanksgiving is all about: family. I’m not talking about anything to do with the root of the holiday, but simply what it means to me.
When I think of Thanksgiving, I think of my loved ones, the moments I’ve shared with them, and how grateful I am for it all.
It’s a reason to gather with the people you love and remember what really matters, and hey, mixing in some football isn’t bad either.