We didn’t light Shabbat candles on Friday nights or go to synagogue on Saturday mornings but, with religious procession, we assembled in front of the TV on Football Sundays. Thirty minutes before kickoff, my father would call Angelo’s, the Sicilian-owned pizzeria on Francis Lewis Boulevard, mumbling instructions for the broccoli and pepperoni pie to be delivered by halftime. In the minutes that followed, school work, bill paying, work on our postage stamp yard, and all productive activity would cease. Sodas and pretzels in hand, my mother, father, and I would take our seats in the den filled with overgrown houseplants and bathed in beams of light. All our senses focused on the TV. Since the room wasn’t big enough for three chairs, my parents would claim their respective recliners while I was relegated to the carpeted floor, delicately balancing a plate and drink.
My mother, a high school guidance counselor, had long studied her x’s and o’s like an academic, eager to prove—to whom, I never quite knew—that she possessed as much knowledge of the gridiron as any man. As soon as the game began, she demanded silence, allowing the words of John Madden and Pat Summerall to carry throughout the house. Guests played no part in our football routine. My mother, who had little interest in playing hostess, felt called to cheer with her whole being, reacting to devastating hits with as much compassion as General Patton. She didn’t want anyone outside the family watching her watch football. Like one...
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