I know for a fact that I do not look good in camouflage. Who does? All those boring colors mixing together in an effort to blend in with your natural surroundings? As if ! I’m no wilderness wallflower! No, I pick out my clothes with the sole intent of standing out. ’Cuz honey, if you’ve got it, don’t camouflage it, camou-flaunt it! Besides, if I wanted to spend my days dressed in nothing but head-to-toe khaki and olive green, I would’ve become a Girl Scout (not a good idea—not only can I not start a campfire, but I’m not to be trusted around all those delicious cookies).
You should know by now that I would never dislike something without at least trying it first (need I remind you about my high school girlfriend, Carrie?). So, trust me when I tell you that camouflage is not my thing. I can talk the talk because I’ve walked the walk. And I did it in camouflage rubber hip-wader boots and matching waterproof jacket, accentuated with a red plaid Elmer Fudd cap.
Duck hunting was one of my dad’s passions. He loved the outdoors, the quality camaraderie of male bonding, and the thrill of the hunt. As a youngster, I’d always watch as he and my brother left for a day of tracking down defenseless ducks. As he loaded up the truck with duck decoys, boxes of ammunition, and a couple cases of Schmidt’s beer, my dad would pat me on the head and say, “Sorry, Rocky, you’re too young. Maybe in a few more years.”
I would feign disappointment, but was always secretly thrilled that I could just stay inside our warm and cozy house with my mom instead, helping her bake banana bread and learning how to properly load and unload the dishwasher. Eventually, the day came when I was old enough, at the ripe old age of eight, to accompany my dad out into the hunting fields.
“Put this on,” he said, tossing me a camouflage jacket two sizes too big.
I did as he said, slightly honored that I was being included and slightly mortified by just how horribly unflattering the jacket was. But, even at that young age, I knew that this was a rite of passage in our family and I wanted to make my dad proud, even at the risk of looking unfashionable.
I spent the better part of our outdoor adventure shivering in the tall grass of a duck blind snacking on mini powdered doughnuts and Slim Jims while reading my Little House on the Prairie book, nonchalantly glancing upward to see if the shotgun blast ringing in my ears had resulted in a bloody duck plummeting from the sky.
While they were killing defenseless animals, I couldn’t help but feel like I was a real buzzkill. So, in an attempt to impress my dad and his hunting buddies, I decided to finally stop dragging my feet, pull my nose out of the book, and just pull the trigger, literally.
The shotgun was heavier than I thought it would be, but I liked holding it, even though it was about as long as I was tall. I felt manly, like Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves, only my movie would have been called Prances with Puppies. The only other time I had held a gun was at the county fair, but that gun was plastic and shot water at a tiny clown’s mouth.
As I struggled to lift his gun to my shoulder, my dad watched, beaming with pride. “Okay,” he whispered. “Close one eye and just use the scope to aim. Steady…Now, slowly pull the trigger.”
I closed my eyes and held my breath as my chubby little finger squeezed the trigger. The violent kickback from the rifle resulted in two unexpected things: a nasty bruise on my shootin’ shoulder, and a high-frequency scream from yours truly echoing across the countryside. Not exactly the effect I was going for. Needless to say, I renewed my library card, but not my hunting license.
Fishing, however, was more my cup of tea. I quite enjoyed the fresh air, the serene, soothing sounds of the water and, most of all, the stop-off at 7-Eleven on the way to the lake (fish may eat earthworms, but I have always preferred the gummy variety). Some of my favorite father-son memories revolve around those quiet moments floating on a lake in a minuscule metal dinghy of a boat, my dad sitting in the back near the small, toylike motor, flicking cigarette ash into the lake. I loved watching him steer from where I was seated in the front of the boat on a makeshift chair made out of a spare lifejacket and an old red-and-white cooler filled with bologna, Shasta grape soda, and beer.
I would stare directly at the end of my fishing pole, waiting—sometimes for hours—to feel a jolt, and for the tip of the pole to jerk down suddenly toward the water, a sure sign that I’d hooked a big one!
I was actually quite adept at reeling in a fish. The trick is in the wrist. Once I’d spun the handle what seemed like a thousand times, the fish would begin to appear, blurry at first, but clearer and clearer as it rose to the surface. This was where my job ended and my dad’s began. As fun and exhilarating as it was to hook a fish, I wasn’t about to actually touch the slimy thing once it came out of the water. Eww.
My dad never complained about doing the dirty work. Instead, he would just roll up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, yank the hook out of the fish’s mouth and whack it on the head with a wrench until it stopped wiggling. What a man.
On the rare occasions when we would encounter a dry spell while fishing, I never panicked. My dad taught me a surefire chant to beckon the fish that I’ll never forget. After a few hours of unsuccessful fishing, he’d say, “Well, Rocky, I think it’s time for the chant.”
Without hesitation, I’d jump up in the middle of our little boat, forcing it to rock from side to side. Once I’d balanced myself, I’d look toward the heavens and shout the fishing chant my father had taught me: “Rat shit bat shit dirty old twat! Thirty-seven assholes tied in a knot! Yay lizard shit!”
Without fail, it always worked. I shit you not.
Oh, how I loved spending quality time with my dad. I savored those moments and yearned to find even more over which we could bond. My next attempt didn’t just go well. In fact, you could say I scored a touchdown.
It might surprise you to know that, between manicures, happy hour, brunch, and watching makeover shows, I have had, since childhood, a hidden passion that takes up much of my time. So, what’s my shocking secret? I’m a sucker for shoulder pads, and not just on my Golden Girls. Yes, believe it or not, I’m a huge football fan, just like any other normal red-blooded American boy!
I’ve been hut-hut-hikin’ ever since I was a pint-sized pee-wee, watching football with my dad and brother every Sunday and Monday during the NFL season. Yeah, there’s no doubt about it—we Mathews men really go hog wild for the ol’ pigskin!
Are you surprised to hear I’m a fabulously fervent football fanatic? Don’t be. I’m a very complicated person. I have more complexities than my delicious seven-layer dip, which always wins Most Valuable Player at my annual Super Bowl party buffet.
Watching and discussing football has just always been something I do, like brushing my teeth or improving every outfit I wear with a pair of brightly colored socks. It’s just deeply ingrained in the fabric of who I am (and I’m not talking about a poly-cotton blend, people).
It kind of bugs me when people find out about my fondness for football and instantly assume, “Oh, Ross, you just watch because you like the beefy guys in tight pants.”
That kind of knee-jerk gut reaction makes me want to knee those jerks in the gut! That’s like saying straight men only watch professional figure skating to see the ladies in their skimpy outfits. That’s ridiculous! I’ll have you know that they watch figure skating for the sheer artistry of the sport, just like I do. Know what I mean? Or should I say, “Brian Boitan-know-what-I-mean”?
No, I happen to have a vast knowledge of the game of football itself. But to be perfectly honest, I fell in love with it by accident. As a kid, the real reason I gave football any attention at all was to spend time with my own personal MVP, my dad.
He simply lived for football, and by watching the games together, we found a mutual interest to bond over. For some strange reason, he wasn’t into the things I was, like debating whether or not Dylan should choose Brenda over Kelly on Beverly Hills 90210 or organizing Skittles by color.
So, with football as our common ground, I began rooting for my dad’s favorite team, the Seattle Seahawks. Oh, our beloved Seahawks. Sure, they’ve rarely ever been any good, bless their hearts. Most years, any high hopes for Super Bowl championship glory are dashed by about the fifth game of the season when their record is usually something like a dismal 1-4, but still, we are the “twelfth man” (football term—look it up) and refuse to be fair-weather fans.
I used to daydream about growing up and becoming a player for the Seahawks one day. I imagined putting on my blue-and-green uniform with matching shoelaces and painting black stripes under my eyes. Not only would the stripes keep the glare of the bright stadium lights away, but they would also really accentuate my cheekbones. I’d sip on orange Gatorade with Steve Largent (#80 and my mom’s favorite player) while trash-talkin’ about the other team’s poor hygiene and bad grooming habits until it was game time. And as I’d walk out onto the Kingdome field, I’d smile and wave to my dad, who’d be beaming with pride right in the front row at the fifty-yard line.
That would’ve been awesome, right? But as much as I loved watching sports, I was about as naturally athletic as a ceramic garden gnome. Despite limitations, I decided to take one for the team and give sports a try.
When I was about eight or nine years old, it was my dad’s encouragement that led me to try T-ball, which is basically like softball with training wheels. As simple as the game was, I still sucked big time. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to spend an entire season wildly swinging a bat at a ball that’s just sitting on a tee in front of you and striking out every single time? I do, and it’s not fun.
It was even worse when the other team was up to bat. I’d just stand around in the outfield making dandelion necklaces while waiting for a pop fly that would never, ever come. You call that cardio? Please, I’ve burned more calories lounging on the couch while watching reruns of Family Feud.
There were nice moments, though, like Capri Suns and apple slices with peanut butter after each game. Also, we had some seriously dapper pinstriped uniforms that we bought after selling candy bars. And what I lacked in God-given athletic talent, I more than made up for in morale-boosting bravado. I mostly served as comic relief on the team, which I enjoyed because I felt very much like Rosie O’Donnell in A League of Their Own.
Next, I tried my hand at soccer. I was slightly better at it than T-ball, but that’s not saying much. Without a doubt, my favorite part of being on the soccer team was photo day. I loved ironing my team T-shirt and bleaching my shin guards and then jockeying for position in the team photo (I always wanted to be kneeling in the front row because that angle minimized my double chin).
My least favorite part, by far, was when we played scrimmage. Why? Three horrifying, soul-crushing, panic-inducing words: Shirts vs. Skins. If you’re thinking to yourself, Why is that so scary? consider yourself lucky. We chipmunk-cheeked chubby chaps know all too well the humiliation involved in the public baring of our pasty and pudgy prepubescent torsos.
Huffing and puffing across a soccer field was one thing, but the mere thought of doing it as a “skin” with my fully exposed man boobs bouncing up and down like Dolly Parton during an earthquake was crossing the line. Fortunately, there are perks when your dad is the coach and he knows you have low self-esteem. Thanks to him, my jersey always stayed on.
I played soccer for five years and scored only one goal. Well, technically one goal, but I didn’t really earn it, at least not in the traditional way. But, still, it totally counts.
It happened in the last quarter of the last game of my soccer career. The score was tied with mere seconds left. I was doing what I usually did during a game, feigning interest in the action at the opposite end of the field while counting down the minutes until our postgame party at Godfather’s Pizza. Out of nowhere, the ball came barreling toward me at, like, a gazillion miles per hour. I looked left, I looked right, but there was nowhere to run. Before I could duck, the soccer ball hit me square in the chest, taking the breath right out of my lungs and knocking me flat on my back.
Mother Hubbard, that hurt! Before I could cry out in pain, I rolled into the fetal position just in time to witness something I had never seen before: a soccer ball, just touched by me, rolling directly into the opponent’s goal. I had just accidentally scored the winning point. The crowd went wild.
The high of that moment gave me the confidence I needed to attempt playing my favorite sport of all, football. I had spent so many years up to that point watching the professionals do it in the NFL, and I hoped deep down that I could emulate what my heroes did. While my dad took me shopping to buy my very first protective cup, I couldn’t stop thinking about the upcoming season with my eighth-grade junior varsity team. I just knew we’d have the kind of heart and camaraderie that could take us all to way to the playoffs. I fantasized about the big championship game and my fourth-quarter Hail Mary pass that would be the cherry on the sundae of our Cinderella season.
Unlike Cinderella and her glass slipper, however, football and I were not a perfect fit. I quickly learned that watching the game is very different from playing the game. I found that the only thing I hated more than tackling other players was being tackled. That shit hurt. And even though I perfected a show-stopping signature touchdown dance—that, sadly, I never got to use—I soon came to the realization that I made a much better cheerleader than I did a linebacker.
As much as I longed to be a professional Seattle Seahawk as a kid, it just wasn’t meant to be. And, you know what? I’m okay with that. I may not have ever made it into the end zone, but I know I made my dad proud by stepping out of my comfort zone. As long as you try, you’re triumphant. You can still find me every Sunday in front of a TV, thinking of my dad as I root for my beloved Seahawks and checking the scores of the other games with the Sports Center app on my iPhone like a real man’s man.
After some time, I’ve come to terms with the fact that the highlight reel of my football career will be limited to that one time I beat my brother at John Madden Football on the Xbox and showing off my killer Nerf spiral in the front yard with my friends. Which, by the way, I just did today. True story.