Breakaway Father

by Roger J. Land

During my first year as an early-morning seminary teacher, I taught the freshman class and felt a need to show interest in the students by attending as many school activities as I could. If my students were involved with sports, music, or drama, I tried to be there to see them perform. A number of the young men in my class were members of the freshman football team. My job allowed me the freedom to attend their games on Thursday afternoons, and I looked forward to this because I love to watch football.

As is the case with most football teams, there are standout players that have that special something that sets them apart from the rest of the team. I hadn’t watched very many games before I noticed one such player, number 23. He was a running back who could break at least one big run per game. He didn’t appear to be fast or flashy. In fact, he ran with a sloppy kind of gait, arms and legs going every which way. But when this deceiving runner would break loose on a long gainer, he would slowly pull away from defenders no matter how perfect their running form might be. His main function on the team was that of a workhorse. Through sheer determination and will power, he would grind out a yard or two at a time. Inevitably he would shake loose from a tackle and get a step or two into the secondary. When this happened, he was good for at least 30 yards or more.

The father of number 23 was at every game. He would walk up and down behind the small crowd on the sideline and offer bits of encouragement. He had an extremely deep, raspy, commanding voice. He wore the clothes of a working man, soiled by working with the land. He wore boots, jeans, and an old cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes. He was a big, strong man with a full moustache that drooped just slightly over each side of his mouth. Rumor had it that he had played football and had been drafted by the pros years ago. His comments were always directed toward the team as if it were a single entity. He never singled out any one player or players. His actions never gave a hint that this giant of a man was the father of number 23. Somehow you knew he felt the disappointments and the hardships of the entire team as they struggled during difficult games. And he, too, shared the feeling of triumph gained from a hard-fought drive that would result in a touchdown. All of this he did with a restrained dignity.

The team played well through the season and toward the end were excited that they could finish the year with a winning record if they could pull out the last two games. Our next game was a defensive struggle with very little yardage gained by either team. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, the other team scored a touchdown and extra point to go ahead 7 to 3. Time continued to tick away. Our team, with the ball on their own 25-yard line, had only a short time left in the game. The situation looked hopeless. I had to leave and reluctantly I started slowly walking around the track toward the gate on the other side of the field. I stopped to watch each play as the team attempted to move the ball. Each attempt was as frustrating as the rest of the game had been. They tried a long pass that was incomplete. Then a running play that was stopped. I reached the gate and was about to leave and turned to watch one more play. The quarterback dropped back and threw a short swing pass to number 23. Immediately four players converged on him, and I turned to leave thinking to myself, “They’ll have to punt and that’s the old ball game.” Suddenly a roar erupted, and I wheeled around just in time to see number 23 shaking off the last tackle. He was heading for the goal line. He broke to the outside and was running along the sideline closest to his team’s side of the field. He was outrunning everyone, everyone except his father, who was matching him step for step out on the track. With his cowboy hat in his hand, he was making giant circles above his head and yelling war whoops that could be heard over the roar of the crowd. The sight of those two running together sent chills of joy down my spine.

Our team won 10 to 7, not an earth-shattering event. It was an obscure football game played by high school freshmen; a short span of time on a Thursday afternoon; a small event but one that produced a moment of “lump-in-the-throat” excitement. But I realized that I had seen something outstanding. I witnessed the flash of joy that the father felt, or for that matter any parent feels, when seeing the success of a child. Sometimes when I see a young person break free from the entanglements of sin or discouragement, I wonder if our Heavenly Father feels that same joy and pride.

Illustrated by Paul Mann