Settle Down Beavis

I just finished rereading Monday's post. What the hell was that? I get kind of worked up. I blame my father. While he is the greatest man I have ever known, he has a tendency to overreact. It looks like it's genetic. 29 days a month Al Gore, Dick Cheney, and hippies don't occupy a bunch of space in my brain. Monday must have been day 30, which is strange because we are in the middle of August and football is starting. I'm addicted to football, and even if there was a 12 stepper I wouldn't be interested. Last weekend I was watching a replay of the Seminoles and the Gators from 1993, and I was getting upset at the play calling. The game ended almost 14 years ago. I know how it ended. It wasn't close. I know that my team not only won the game, but went on to win the national championship that year. Charlie Ward won the Heisman. Warrick Dunn was a freshman sensation. Bobby Bowden was lucid, that's how long ago it was. Yet I was standing in the middle of my living room holding my baby girl and screaming at the television. I couldn't help it. What made me happy is that LMJ didn't get upset. Normally, if I get loud she gets scared. She cries when I cough. She cries when I shout her mother's name across the house. But watching a football game, my yelling didn't bother her. She was empathizing, and she was grateful because I could verbalize what she couldn't. At three months she understands a basic truth: you don't ask a quarterback with an average arm to make plays requiring a big time arm. Charlie Ward's strengths were his cool demeanor and his mobility, not his rocket arm. LMJ is going to be all right. When she's playing touch football in kindergarten she'll know how to find and point out the mike backer. She'll know she can go deep against cover 3 and to get rid of the ball against cover zero. I'm not sure but I think I started this post about my overreactions.