gobble, gobble, hike

everyone has their own game. Mostly it's called Turkey Bowl. I've played with family in Batavia in my younger days and now with old drinking buddies in town.
Every year we arrive at nine a.m. with jerseys that seem to shrink more and more. I still wear an old Bears jersey with Zorich on the back. We pound a few beers, have a couple shots, then game on. In fact, the ball marker goes from a couple cans of Old Style or Bud Light, to a cooler and case.
We went from tackle to two hand touch due to progressing age of the players. But it still hurts. Last year I heard three distinct pops in my shoulder after missing a dump pass in the flat as I hit the dirt. But I was able to put up Christmas lights the next day scaling an old ladder 25 feet in the air. Dislocated a shoulder, pulled ligaments in my knee, bloody lip and nose, but the beer stays cold and we are men. Silly men in suburbia.
In the end, we go back to our families to reunite another year. And no beer cans are left behind. All that is left is the echo of men screeching like soroity girls in chapter and roughed up sod.

Have a safe and happy thanksgiving. I can imagine we have had our various challenges and rewards this year, just remember it's about family.
And remember the Pilgrims were aiming for Virginia and found Massachusetts instead. If men asked for directions, who knows what would've happened.

Part 2
Survived the game.

• It became a tackle fest with only one person going to the hospital. A little sore, but I remember how much I enjoy some good old fashioned physical contact.
• I was mercilessly taunted by a little 9 year old. He was the ballsiest little bugger in some time.
• Obob is a North South runner.
  
• Obob could not tackle and left his jock in several locales.
• Finally, Old Style is man beer. No contest.