In the 1970s we spent three years in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. And dedicated three football seasons driving to nearby Durham so our son could play on a pee-wee football team.
There was a reason Kelson wanted to play football in nearby Durham. Little Elks played tackle football.
In Chapel Hill where his Dad taught and completed a Ph.D, they played flag ball. And Kelson had learned to tackle in Texas. After three years in Carolina, we were going back in May. One of the other parents said he hated to see us go.
Our new football family friend managed a tree-trimming firm and raised tobacco on a small farm outside Durham. He was what liberals at Chapel Hill would call a ‘red neck.’
“We’re going to miss you,“ he said.
I chuckled. “I remember three years ago, the other parents seemed a little hesitant about our son coming to Durham and playing.”
“You’re right.” he said. “But remember the evening when our boys played in a slight drizzle? When your son was showing how to grab the feet of the big boy on the other team. And you showed up wearing a cowboy hat?”
“That’s when we parents decided you were all right, even though you were driving over from Communist Hill.”
Photo by Brad Sauter at Shutterstock
