Steeling away some time to be together

He comes running onto the field like he's a, well, like he's a football player. As big as the wind in Oklahoma, as quick as the wells that dig summer oil and as filled with effort as those medal monstrosities, pumping legs and arms mostly at the proper time.

My wife, Mary, says she worries about him and football because, I guess, that's the proper role of MawMaws, and she watches the same sports programming I do, but I have no worries that somewhere along the line all this will get out of line and he'll quit pumping legs and arms mostly at the proper time. He wears the No. 8 because that's what we all do or did, each of us down the line wearing No. 8. It's the family heirloom.

That's just the lay of the land, and of Gavin's legs and arms.

He is playing center and defense lineman this year, though he is neither big enough nor strong enough nor, well, anything enough to be doing so.

But his No. 8 is white and the black jersey is mostly, kinda black and his pants are mostly, kinda black and the paper they ran through to open the season, the one with Go Steelers ruggedly printed, let them shout to the world that they, the Steelers, were going and going and going like some maniacal announcement.

The season had begun.
Gavin had broken through.
The Steelers, with their golden socks and all-black attire, were going.

And somehow they were ready, they said, running as if the wind was an impetus to sing lonely football songs.

Gavin is our soon-to-be college age philosopher. He will turn eight in February. Had he read that sentence, or heard it read, he would have said, "what does that mean, PawPaw?" I would have said, "Gavin, you just don't get things do you?" I would have turned away so he couldn't see me beginning to laugh. Gavin gets things just fine. PawPaw doesn't get them much of the time.

He follows suit.

Last year, we packed up and got in the car to go to Dairy Queen. Gavin, says he wants a Coke float. We get him one. We drive away. About halfway home, he says, "this is gross. It's like real Coke poured over ice cream." We say, "Gavin, that's what it is. Didn't you know that?" He says, "No. I never had one."

Last year the -- then -- Saints went unbeaten if memory serves (and it serves less as the days creep by). Gavin's first season in football went off with a great bang. The team won, again if memory ... all through the championship. Gavin even, though size is a bit of a handicap, recovered a critical fumble in the championship game.

He's all movement and such, with a bit of chaotic, strategic, loopy energy pitched into the bundle. But I would give a mint or two to be able to see him this fall, with a year of football under his little belt.

Till the next time, though, Go Steelers (and I have a mental picture of someone stunned by that admission and speech).