"Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable and safe in a confusing world."
- Susan Lieberman
AUBURN, Maine — High school football was the main course on the Thanksgiving Day menu.
For some reason, the 900-course meal at our grandmother's house took a back seat until we froze our buttocks off watching two high schools butt heads in the early morning cold.
The game was a social event for citizens who were just getting warmed up for turkey, stuffing and grammy's homemade apple pie.
But the game came first before all good citizens of Revere would indulge at the dinner table.
That was a tradition that lasted for decades. Filling our bellies with turkey was second to watching Revere and Winthrop slap each other around on the field.
The outcome of those two coastal communities slugging it out on the gridiron could be a real sore spot at the dinner table in the afternoon.
I was a spectator and a participant during those Turkey Day games. I have suffered frostbite on snow-covered fields watching the Patriots roll around in the mud.
There is only one Turkey Day game played in Maine and that is between Portland and Deering. But in my native state of Massachusetts, football games are played across the Bay State.
Game day, 10 a.m.
Thursday mornings began with an 8 a.m., wake-up call from my frantic father — a sports fanatic who coached high school baseball for over 40 years. You can find him on the couch with his face buried in the sports pages each morning.
Then came a round of phone calls to see who would be attending the game. We usually traveled with the Marras. Robert Marra was a music teacher, classical violinist and a man who studied the scoreboard page like a sheet from Mozart's music.
We piled into one car and sped off to the game. The crowds were huge. There were no distractions like cell phones. Nobody looked down but up at a game played by a bunch of tough kids who represented their community.
My dad and Mr. Marra would eventually unite with athletic director Silvio Cella, a former RHS football coach who ran his program like a U.S. Marine because he was a Marine who served in the Pacific during World War II. All three men served their country. Cella and Marra both fought in World War II and my dad served during the occupation of Germany.
I played for coach Cella for three years. He was tough, but football is rough game, and if you don't enjoy being hit or knocking the other the guy to the ground, then play a more civilized sport like baseball or golf.
For two hours, we stood in the cold. The Patriots and Vikings traded blows before we finally began thinking about a warm meal and a hot cup of coffee
Time has the final say
I can't remember the last time my father and I attended a Revere football game. He is now 80 years old and he fighting his own battle with Alzheimer's.
The disease is winning and the tradition of attending a turkey day game has vanished along with so many people I have loved.
All traditions are swept away by time, and there is not a damn thing any one of us can do about it.
Cronus (Titan god of time) always comes out on top.
I believe it was about 10 years ago when my father and I stopped going to the Turkey Day games. Mr. Marra and Mr. Cella sadly are no longer with us. And the loss our mother has slowed us all down.
But I know if I dwell in the past, I will lose the future, and that future is my son and wife.
No matter what lies ahead, I still have them, and many of my immediate family members, and that is helluva a lot to be thankful on this day.
