Now Tiny is four. (If he’s wearing a button, change it to AGE: 4.) The carriage is wheeled offstage, and Mom and Dad return carrying a pew-like bench. They sit down on it, with Tiny in the middle. The chorus arranges itself behind them, in the formation of a church choir.
Tiny looks a little uncomfortable between his parents.
TINY:
It wasn’t very long before my parents introduced me to their religion. I was four, so I didn’t know there was any possibility of questioning it. Plus, I wanted so much to fit in. I know that’s the story of our whole lives, but it all starts here. More than anything else, we want to fit into our own families.
DAD:
Son, it’s very important to me that you take this seriously.
TINY:
Yes, Dad.
MOM:
It’s not to be questioned. This is how we were raised, and it’s how we are going to raise you. It is very important to us.
TINY:
I understand, Mom.
MOM AND DAD:
Good.
The music for “RELIGION” should be . . . well . . . religious. Hymnlike and intense, as if sung by a true church choir. It must be sung very seriously, as if we’re in a house of worship. I mean, not in a Sister Act, gospel-choir sense—these are NOT nuns led by Whoopi Goldberg. They are from Illinois. And not the gospel parts of Illinois. We are deep in the suburbs here.
Tiny looks slightly uncomfortable in the pew.
[“RELIGION”]
DAD, MOM, AND CHORUS:
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
is our day
for religion.
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
we congregate
and pray.
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
is a
visitation.
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
Every Sunday
we watch
them play.
A television is wheeled out in front of the Cooper family. Dad turns it on. They are basked in the glow of the game. All the chorus members take out Chicago Bears banners and foam #1 fingers and begin to wave them in a synchronized, still church-like way.
As the song goes on, we should see Tiny getting more and more into it.
DAD, MOM, AND CHORUS:
Hail Mary
Hail Mary
Hail Mary . . .
Pass!
Godspeed
Godspeed
Godspeed . . .
To the end zone!
(Hymnlike, the chorus now splits into men and women, echoing each other.)
WOMEN:
Remember the Super Bowl Shuffle.
MEN:
Remember the Super Bowl Shuffle.
WOMEN:
In this land of plenty—
MEN:
In this land of plenty—
WOMEN:
—we won Super Bowl Twenty.
MEN:
—we won Super Bowl Twenty.
WOMEN AND MEN TOGETHER (in crescendo):
Ditka!
Ditka!
Ditka!
(For those of you who prefer to avoid sports at all costs, Mike Ditka was not only a player when the Chicago Bears won the national championship in 1963, he was the head coach when they won in 1985. This is like Bernadette Peters winning a Tony for Song & Dance in 1985 and then coming back in 2007 and winning for directing a revival of it. Which didn’t happen, but I wish it had.)
As Mom, Dad, and the chorus silently cheer on the Bears, Tiny speaks from the bench (aka our den’s lime-green couch):
TINY:
I fell into my parents’ religion not because it was required, not because they forced me into it, but because they invited me in and showed me the beauty of it, the faith it required, the devotion a person could give to something outside of himself. During that magical stretch from September to January, we would enclose ourselves in game time, watching the intricate, spontaneous choreography of each face-off, either on television or in the stadium itself. Only a nonbeliever looks at football and sees brute strength. A believer can see all of the layers—the strategy, the teamwork, the individual personalities clicking together. You can only control the game so much from the bleachers, so loving this game means having to give yourself up to the unpredictable, the unknowable. Your heart is bruised with every loss, but it’s never broken. You sing with invincible joy at every win, but you’re still vulnerable when the next game comes. My parents taught me all this, sometimes by telling me, but mostly by example.
Tiny now joins in with the song.
TINY, DAD, MOM, AND CHORUS:
In the cold,
in the wind,
we’ll be there for you.
Your agony,
your ecstasy,
we will feel it.
For four whole hours
there will be no other cares.
Just the sound of the play-by-play
of what happens to our Bears!
DAD (TO TINY):
You throw the ball and hope.
TINY (repeating, learning):
You throw the ball and hope.
DAD (TO TINY):
You catch the ball and run.
TINY (repeating, learning):
You catch the ball and run.
MOM AND CHORUS:
As you gather on the field,
we will gather in our homes.
And we will pray.
Yes, we will pray.
(TINY AND DAD JOIN IN.)
Every Sunday!
Every Sunday!
Every Sunday!
And sometimes Monday!
Try as hard as you can to convey what it’s like to be together on a Sunday with your family, watching the Big Game. This might seem like a superficial number in the overall context of Tiny Cooper’s life, but I assure you that it is not. The purity of his parents’ belief—even if it’s in the name of football—is one of the guiding lights for Tiny, and enables him to do all of the things he’s about to do. He won’t grow up to be a Bear himself (well, not in a football sense), and in truth, as his musical pursuits take hold, there will be Sundays when he will skip watching the game because of a badly timed matinee. But still he’s taking the energy that was generated in these early days and using it to find his own religion, which will serve him well, even if at times it’s confusing beyond belief.
Tiny’s parents don’t know it and will never understand it, but they’re his role models.