The only thing more entertaining ““ and head-spinning
““ than a typical heart-taxing Bruin football game is watching
one with your parents.
Very rarely do I get a chance to go home to Westlake Village and
sit down for some pigskin with the ‘rents, mostly because
I’m either at the game or watching it with the proverbial
homies back in Westwood.
Saddled with a bucket full of laundry, I made the trek home this
Saturday. And from there, the column pretty much wrote itself.
First, though, you need to know a few things about my
parents.
My mom went to Michigan State and bleeds Spartan green, so UCLA
is No. 2 on her list. Always will be, even on days like Saturday,
when State got spanked by 46 points against Michigan.
The other thing is she has this penchant for calling every
running back she’s ever liked by his first name. With the
Lions, it was always this ridiculously melodic cheer of “Go
Barry, go Barry, go Barry, go!”
I’m not doing this justice, though. It’s like Dave
Matthews Band ““ you just have to see and hear it in
person.
My dad also went to State, but he’s ditched the Big Ten in
favor of the pass-drunk Pac-10. He grew up the son of a Big Ten
football coach and tells me he secretly clamored for the blue and
gold and script helmets of UCLA while catching hypothermia in
places like Evanston and Ann Arbor.
His relentless optimism is also a great counter to my jaded
21-year-old self.
In fact, at the breakfast table Saturday, he declared with
Fassellian confidence that UCLA would win.
So that sets the scene. Me, my mom, my dad, and their friends,
the Lemoines, who arrived late in the first quarter. I swear, it
was like having the Costanzas over to the Seinfelds’.
It’s definitely a different environment when you’re
sitting around the TV with two sets of parents and not with college
friends. Instead of, “Hey jackhole, be a lamb and get me a
beer while you’re up,” you’re more likely to hear
plans for remodeling the house, or about how gloomy the weather has
been.
Case in point: as Drew Olson is trying to calm down early in the
second quarter and I’m bouncing around with nervous energy,
Mrs. Lemoine asks, “are those impatiens out there?”
It’s not that they don’t understand football. Aside
from an unyielding opinion that ANY penalty called on former
Westlake High player Mike Seidman is completely wrong, they really
know their stuff.
But at the same time, they don’t get completely silent
right as the ball is snapped, like it is when I watch a game with
my friends at school. They talk, and then they talk.
And then they talk a little more, until, when my mom catches a
breath, she yells, “All right Tyler, go!” which
I’m fearing is taking over as her new cheer.
But I still remember where the rent check comes from, and I have
to admit some of their stuff is pure gold, such as my dad and Mr.
Lemoine mercilessly making fun of TBS sideline reporter Craig Sager
(My dad: “”˜This is Craig Sager reporting!’ And he
is”¦?”). An unexpected surprise, for sure.
And between talking about a new six-burner barbeque my dad just
got and how rough the housing market is, they share the same
frustration when the Bruins only get three points after starting
with a first-and-five, or the same elation when UCLA picks off its
fourth Cody Pickett pass.
Yes, it turns out parents are real fans, too. I only fear that
20 years from now, instead of hanging on every down, I too, will be
more fixated on the best way to cook a turkey.
As for the game, Olson did calm down, Tyler Ebell is on his way
to the previously unthinkable ““ 1,000 yards ““ and the
Bruins are a plucky 6-3.
But all that was secondary, with the Fearsome Foursome still
yammering away. And so, I’ll leave you with this classic
interchange, after Olson nearly threw a costly interception:
Mrs. Lemoine: Is that Olson? He sucks!
Mr. Lemoine: That’s a bit harsh.
My dad: Come on, he’s 12!
Mrs. Lemoine: Wait, is Olson a freshman, too?
My mom: Yeah.
Mrs. Lemoine: Oh.
And TBS thought it had the Big Game House.