My son has his own houndstooth hat, for crying out loud.
Just the other day, we watched preseason, then bought a new ball, ran some slant routes in the front yard -- start toward the mailbox, then cut hard left to the neighbors' rose bushes -- and then went back inside to sort out his jerseys: Peyton on top, an old M. Vick on the bottom, Aaron Rodgers right in the middle.
"Dad, can we go throw after dinner?" he asked.
"Is the pope Catholic?" I answered.
So what I'm about to write fills me with grief, anger and a very real amount of anxiety, the way it may feel to quit smoking.
Thanks to a man named Steve Almond, I am oh-this-close to boycotting the football season entirely.