Not Amped for Camp
Like most kids, my boys get excited by the prospect of going to summer camp. Except when they have to go with their dad. And especially when dad picks a “crummy” camp.
I admit it, I severely mistreated my children by taking them to an NFL training camp.
Now my kids like football. And in theory, they liked the idea of watching big pro stars get in shape for the season. They were just underwhelmed by the particular NFL camp that I dragged them to: the Buffalo Bills camp, in Pittsford, New York.
All the way there, No. 3 son (age 12) whined that he would’ve much rather traveled to Latrobe, Pennsylvania, to see his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers. He became a big fan on account of their Super Bowl title of a couple years ago, which he likes to call “Super Bowl XL-ENT!”
No.4 son (10) lamented that we should’ve gone to Foxborough, Massachusetts, to see his beloved New England Patriots. He became a big fan on account of their victory in Super Bowl XXXVIII, which he likes to point out was bigger than any other Super Bowl. In terms of Roman numerals.
Then there’s No. 5 son (6), who would’ve been far happier if we’d visited Flowery Branch, Georgia, to see his beloved Atlanta Falcons. He became a big fan on account of what he calls “the gnarly logos on their helmets.”
(Pop quiz: Did you know the Falcons logo is supposed to reflect the shape of a letter of the alphabet? I just learned this tidbit of trivia today, and after 20 minutes of study, I think I see it. It’s a “P,” and it stands for “PETA.”)
In spite of their peculiar rooting interests, my boys are gamely trying to manufacture some love for the Bills, mainly because their grampa is thinking about taking them to a game this season, and they’ve heard from all their neighborhood buddies that the stadium concessions are awesome.
Once we actually arrived at the camp, their kvetching kicked up a notch, because it was flesh-meltingly hot. They acted as though we’d entered the gates of, well, where the dude with the pitchfork lives.
Which is another reason my kids are skeptical of the Bills. They think aitch-e-double-hockey sticks is where the Bills are heading if they don’t change their quarterback situation. Here’s how they explain it:
No. 3 son: “The starter is named ‘Losman,’ which is pronounced ‘LOSS, man’!”
No. 4 son: “The backup is named ‘Nall,’ which sounds like ‘null,’ which invariably precedes ‘and void’!”
No. 5 son: “The third-stringer is named ‘Trent Edwards,’ which sounds like the name of a character on a soap opera!”
My kids’ Buffa-love is further hindered by the current state of their Bills memorabilia. They all own jersey number 21, bearing the name of ex-Bill Willis McGahee. When McGahee left the Bills a few months ago, he made some uncomplimentary parting remarks about Buffalo, which honked a lot of people off.
Ergo, very few Bills fans will wear “21” shirts for a while, including my kids. Although not because McGahee dissed Buffalo. They won’t wear them because whenever they do, I perform my patented impression of Arnold from “Diff’rent Strokes”: “Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis?”
(That one used to really crack them up, back when they were about 10 months old and had no idea what I was saying.)
When we parked their butts on some bleachers to watch the players drill, they finally got a little more into the camp experience. No. 4, looking kind of goggle-eyed, remarked on the size of a couple of defensive linemen. I told him those guys each weighed more than 305 pounds. “Yeah,” he replied with a heavy sigh, “it’s just like NFL.com says. . .the Bills’ line is too small!” This coming from a skin-and-bones 10-year old who could easily use a cleat from one of those lineman as a hot tub.
(Incidentally, the Bills also have a couple 275-pound defenders up front, but NFL.com actually did comment on “how small their line is.” Yeesh.)
At the end of practice, as we dragged ourselves back through the Hades-hot parking lot, I asked the boys what they’d tell their mom was the best thing about visiting a real NFL training camp. They thought for a moment and then agreed: “Watching football without commercials for male enhancement products.”
# # #
TakefiveT5@yahoo.com
I admit it, I severely mistreated my children by taking them to an NFL training camp.
Now my kids like football. And in theory, they liked the idea of watching big pro stars get in shape for the season. They were just underwhelmed by the particular NFL camp that I dragged them to: the Buffalo Bills camp, in Pittsford, New York.
All the way there, No. 3 son (age 12) whined that he would’ve much rather traveled to Latrobe, Pennsylvania, to see his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers. He became a big fan on account of their Super Bowl title of a couple years ago, which he likes to call “Super Bowl XL-ENT!”
No.4 son (10) lamented that we should’ve gone to Foxborough, Massachusetts, to see his beloved New England Patriots. He became a big fan on account of their victory in Super Bowl XXXVIII, which he likes to point out was bigger than any other Super Bowl. In terms of Roman numerals.
Then there’s No. 5 son (6), who would’ve been far happier if we’d visited Flowery Branch, Georgia, to see his beloved Atlanta Falcons. He became a big fan on account of what he calls “the gnarly logos on their helmets.”
(Pop quiz: Did you know the Falcons logo is supposed to reflect the shape of a letter of the alphabet? I just learned this tidbit of trivia today, and after 20 minutes of study, I think I see it. It’s a “P,” and it stands for “PETA.”)
In spite of their peculiar rooting interests, my boys are gamely trying to manufacture some love for the Bills, mainly because their grampa is thinking about taking them to a game this season, and they’ve heard from all their neighborhood buddies that the stadium concessions are awesome.
Once we actually arrived at the camp, their kvetching kicked up a notch, because it was flesh-meltingly hot. They acted as though we’d entered the gates of, well, where the dude with the pitchfork lives.
Which is another reason my kids are skeptical of the Bills. They think aitch-e-double-hockey sticks is where the Bills are heading if they don’t change their quarterback situation. Here’s how they explain it:
No. 3 son: “The starter is named ‘Losman,’ which is pronounced ‘LOSS, man’!”
No. 4 son: “The backup is named ‘Nall,’ which sounds like ‘null,’ which invariably precedes ‘and void’!”
No. 5 son: “The third-stringer is named ‘Trent Edwards,’ which sounds like the name of a character on a soap opera!”
My kids’ Buffa-love is further hindered by the current state of their Bills memorabilia. They all own jersey number 21, bearing the name of ex-Bill Willis McGahee. When McGahee left the Bills a few months ago, he made some uncomplimentary parting remarks about Buffalo, which honked a lot of people off.
Ergo, very few Bills fans will wear “21” shirts for a while, including my kids. Although not because McGahee dissed Buffalo. They won’t wear them because whenever they do, I perform my patented impression of Arnold from “Diff’rent Strokes”: “Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis?”
(That one used to really crack them up, back when they were about 10 months old and had no idea what I was saying.)
When we parked their butts on some bleachers to watch the players drill, they finally got a little more into the camp experience. No. 4, looking kind of goggle-eyed, remarked on the size of a couple of defensive linemen. I told him those guys each weighed more than 305 pounds. “Yeah,” he replied with a heavy sigh, “it’s just like NFL.com says. . .the Bills’ line is too small!” This coming from a skin-and-bones 10-year old who could easily use a cleat from one of those lineman as a hot tub.
(Incidentally, the Bills also have a couple 275-pound defenders up front, but NFL.com actually did comment on “how small their line is.” Yeesh.)
At the end of practice, as we dragged ourselves back through the Hades-hot parking lot, I asked the boys what they’d tell their mom was the best thing about visiting a real NFL training camp. They thought for a moment and then agreed: “Watching football without commercials for male enhancement products.”
# # #
TakefiveT5@yahoo.com

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