This is definitely one of my favorite times of the year.
I just cut my lawn for the last time, the leaves are off the trees and, most important of all, we are in the midst of a Patriots football season that holds out the hope that the boys of red, white and blue might just make it into the playoffs this year.
Tradition has it that every Sunday afternoon a bunch of my guy friends and male relatives meet in my basement, which I call "the hole," to eat chips, drink beer and watch our mighty team beat up the best the National Football League has to offer.
At least it used to be that way until the wives of my friends and relatives started to show up to show us the way these festivities should be enjoyed. Now we watch the game surrounded by cheese trays, pate' balls, and vegetable dishes and everything is much more civilized.
The way it used to work was 'the boys' would show up around 11:00 a.m. to watch the pre-pre-pre-game reports. Everybody brought a six-pack or two in a cooler that was always topped off with plenty of melted ice. My primary responsibility at that time was to make sure the old and rotted trash can from years gone by was empty and that I had plenty of potato chips and onion dip on hand. This food was never placed in a bowl. The bags were thrown into the middle of the room so that anybody who needed a salt rush could find them. The dips were also placed next to the potato chip bags waiting to be opened by whoever wanted them. Napkins and pretty little paper plates were not so important back then.
Today no one is allowed to come over before 12:45 because it would be unfair to the women of the group to interrupt their preparation time. Plus the downstairs recreation room, that once was called the hole, had to be cleaned and vacuumed. It is also very important that I make sure that I have enough chardonnay chilled. In fact, it became my responsibility to fill the ice buckets so that if anyone's wine or aperitif was not cold enough there would be easy access to the ice. I also had to make sure that the recycling bin was empty and that it had a new plastic liner in it to make sure that not a drop of beverage fell on the rug.
The way it used to work a bunch of frustrated athletes would yell at the TV in the hope that we could will the coach into following our advice from 'the hole' and steer the team to victory. Colorful adjectives, adverbs, and insults were offered frequently and without hesitation. In fact, I remember some words being screamed at the officials that I still have no idea what they meant.
Today language is kept in check. It is impolite to raise one's voice above normal speaking level because that would show that we did not respect our wives. Children are now allowed to join us in our weekly tradition. Some of them are much too young to enjoy what is going on and park themselves in front of the TV to play board games while the rest of us pray silently that they don't stand up and block out a touchdown.
I believe that for many of us, our blood pressure is higher now than it was a few years ago because we are no longer allowed to vent any of the hot air that most of us at our age seem to possess. Natural bodily gases are also restrained because this would be inconsiderate to our guests.
I also notice that the attire of my guy friends has changed appreciably during the past couple of years. Years ago they used to arrive in old dingy jeans and sweatshirts, often stained with machine oil or grass cuttings. I believe that the dirtier one arrived the more respected they were. Many of my friends actually smelled of the chores they had completed during the first part of their weekend. Needless to say, the smellier the better.
Today my friends arrive well groomed and in their casual best. Jeans are rarely seen except for those who purchased dress jeans for this type of an occasion. The women are also in their Sunday best with the children still dressed from church or Sunday school.
Most of my friends now smell of cologne or some soap that their wives make them use. It used to be that if you smelled too good you were relegated to the folding chair at the back of the room.
The seating arrangement was never important when my Sundays were filled with a bunch of guys just trying to blow off some steam and basically make fools out of each other. Back then we found the best seat in front of the TV or planted ourselves on the floor in order to lean on the pole that was there to hold up my house. The front row was important here because one could see the best and one could yell directly at the officials who perpetually screwed our Patriots.
Today I am told to set up specific chairs for specific areas. I am also told to set up certain tables to be dispersed throughout the room so that the food can be easily tasted and enjoyed. Certain sized bowls were color coordinated so that their contents would not clash. The dips, or I should now say, spreads were arranged attractively in bowls and they all had small highly decorated knives on them so that one could spread instead of dip.
Most of the decorated knives had sculptures of little cats or dogs on the end of their handles.
Every now and then I yearn for the good old days when a random fart or hearty belch was followed by an appreciative cheer instead of a reprimand by a wife who would ask what barn one had been raised in.
I still yearn for the taste of the inside of a bag of greasy chips instead of the delicate aftertaste of a selected pate'. I guess that is why progress is said to make us all better.
But, I also have to admit that I look forward to a time when my friends and I can get together again, leave our walkers at the back of the room, and root for a team that could not possibly win while releasing years of pent up gas that our advanced years will allow us to release without any fear of breaching the new football etiquette.
Jim Fabiano is a teacher and writer living in York, Maine
You can contact Jim at: james.fabiano60@gmail.com
