I grew up in the Barry Sanders era. It was a thrilling time to be a Lions fan. There was an electric energy that coursed through the living room every Sunday during football season when Dad turned on the game. He rarely sat down. He’d lean over the back of the couch, Miller Lite in hand, and erupt in a roar of cheers at every first down.
It was a sacred time for our family—one of the few times we were all together and hanging out with Dad. He was always working at the glass shop or laboring in the yard. There was always business to tend to, and I have few memories of him actually playing with us. But football was his thing, and so, it became our thing too. My mom, siblings, and I were there, week after week, watching football with Dad without fail.
I think fondly of those times. The smell of cabbage and roast wafting from the crockpot, or of Dad’s famous goulash simmering on the stove. Sometimes it was a thick venison chili or beef tips shrouded in a dark, creamy gravy poured over egg noodles. There was always something warm cooking in the slow, leisurely hours of football Sunday, the aroma of which filled the house with a warmth that made everything seem right in the world.
During halftime of most Lions games, Dad grabbed the football and ran out into the long side yard, hollering at us kids to follow. It was always a race to get their first. We threw on our shoes and sprinted after him, forgoing our coats to Mom’s admonishment.
We’d sprint toward the west berm near the cornfield and the resident killdeer as Dad wound up and launched a Hail Mary to one of us, screaming, “If you catch this, the Lions are going to the Super Bowl this year!” It was always the same phrase. It never once changed or wavered. He’d say it with every throw, and with every catch, there was the hope that it could happen, the longing that it would, and the possibility that it just might.
It's no surprise that I kept thinking of Dad when I turned on the Lions vs. Rams wild-card playoff game last night. I kept thinking about how much he would have loved this, and about how he’s the reason I love it.
Dad is the reason I watch football even though there’s plenty I don’t like about it. The way it celebrates violence and aggression, for example, and fosters toxic masculinity. The fact that there are over 300,000 concussions in the US from football every year, and an increased risk for repeated traumatic brain injuries. There’s plenty I don’t like about football, but that’s not the point of this post.
I’m a sentimental Lions fan, indoctrinated into this religion by my dad who couldn’t be bribed to sit in a church pew for a single hour, but faithfully showed up for a Lions game every Sunday without fail.
This year has felt especially exciting for Lions fans. There’s the payoff of a new coach and a new direction, the division championship, our second best season record to date, and, now, the playoffs. It’s hopeful. Thrilling. Electric.
When I was a kid, the hours we spent huddled together in the living room or outside catching Hail Mary’s weren’t ever about football, at least not for me. It was the precious time we spent together. It didn’t matter what we were doing. At the end of the day, Lions football games were about togetherness. At the end of the day, brimming with happiness, I’d lie in bed and replay each Hail Mary, and the enthusiastic look on Dad’s face, before drifting off to sleep.
It makes me think about traditions—what my kids will remember when they’re grown and off living their fabulous lives, what legacy I’ll leave behind.
Will my kids remember the hours we spent playing in the sand at the beach every summer? Will they remember the endless loops of scootering and biking we took around the campground? Our after-dinner family walks? The way we make cinnamon rolls and set up the Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving? The slow Saturday mornings when we snuggle in bed and watch extra shows together? Our favorite hiking trails and the many family hikes? The blanket forts on a rainy day? Our Thursday morning library trips? I don’t know what they will remember, but I do know that any memories and traditions they might carry with them begins with togetherness.
My Dad’s no longer here, but I’m so grateful for the 15 years of football Sundays we shared together. And who knows? Maybe this is the year all of those completed Hail Mary’s will pay off and Dad’s prayer will come true. Maybe the Lions will go to the Super Bowl this year. I’d love to see it happen.