Turkeys and other relatives
It happens the fourth Thursday of every November: Millions of Americans gather for Thanksgiving only to wind up in a death grapple over a meaningless football game.
They don’t want to; they simply can’t help themselves. It’s one of those inalienable rights that Americans always cite:
“Congress shall make no law restricting the vindictiveness of relatives/friends and/or casual acquaintances in relation to a televised derivative of rugby.”
And, really, we need something to wake us after watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Giant, helium-filled Snoopy, Bullwinkle and Miley Cyrus balloons. And, this year, a float depicting Pilgrims wading back out to the Mayflower after the Patuxet Indians accused them of being terrorists.
I fondly recall my family’s traditional Thanksgiving Day football viewing parties when I was growing up. This was long before 80-inch widescreen HDTVs and DVD recorders. Their advent, of course, made it possible to clearly freeze the action to determine without doubt if a wide receiver’s dropped pass was caused, in medical terms, by his tight meniscus or a cheerleader’s tight gluteus maximus.
Back then, we could rely only on individual memory, which sometimes was clouded by a combination of football allegiances and how much fire bourbon had been mixed with the cider.
Uncle Buck: “His foot was out of bounds!”
Cousin Bucky: “Yer crazy! He was a yard from the sideline!”
Bucky Jr.: “Didn’t you see the chalk fly when his foot hit it?”
Buck Jr.: “The defensive back probably carries chalk dust to fool the officials!”
Buck III: “Moron!”
Buck Jr. Jr.: “Lions fan!”
In 1982, we began taping our fights, the better to determine who threw the first punch. This helped somewhat, but the tape from 1995 is still under review. That year, during the Detroit Lions’ 44-38 victory over the Minnesota Vikings, someone blocked Grandma below the waist – just as she stepped from the kitchen carrying the mashed potatoes. Unfortunately, the videographer was focused on the tray. Although the Timex on the left wrist of the blocker looks suspiciously like the one worn by Aunt Bucketta (who was always jealous of Grandma’s stuffing recipe), the tape is inconclusive. We tried to move on, but some in our family still refer to “The Great Tater Totter.”
Ever the conciliator, Mom brokered a peace in 1996 by donning a zebra-striped “official’s apron” and bringing both teams together at a 50-yard line she had made out of white satin ribbon and placed on the artificial turf carpet in the homestead’s game room. We all agreed the penalty flag napkins were a nice touch, too. The peace lasted until 2014.
That’s when cousin “Sparky” Sparkovitch – of the Ohio Sparkovitches (related by marriage) -after winning a 20-minute scrum over a contested blocked field goal, put the turkey down the front of his pants.
After review of our digital capture of the fight, cousin “L’il Sparky” Sparkovitch – of the Indiana Sparkovitches (related by intermarriage) – upheld Sparky’s penalty: 15 yards. Personal fowl.
Then things got ugly. You guessed it: a couch-clearing brawl.
Still, we sorted it out in time to share pumpkin pie with real whipped cream and not that Cool Whip crap the Michigan branch of the family always brings.
But I think Mom expects bigger trouble tomorrow.
One of the Navy SEALS she hired for security seems nervous.