Take it away, Mr. Matt:

I don’t go to Cleveland any more for Thanksgiving (my parents moved next door to Cretin-Derham Hall this summer after a 43 year run in Northeast Ohio), but there was a long spell where Thanksgiving morning meant football in the backyard. From age seven or so until past high school, the Washington Boulevard cohort would gather in our backyard to play two-hand touch on Thanksgiving morning. The yard was 55 feet wide; the garage of the neighbor to the west was the end zone, the fence of the neighbor to the east the 50 yard line (so if the ball carrier touched the fence and started running back, the defender had to touch the fence before he could stop the ball carrier). The arcane formula for attainment of first downs is lost to the mists of time, but I think it involved trees.

I was reminded of this whilst on the phone with the kid who grew up three doors east of us; his wife asked him about the scar on his knee which is now 35 years old. Eight stitches when he cut it open on a brick which was lying on the ground out of bounds. Apparently this was my fault. Thanksgiving is a time for long-held grudges, I guess.

No football for me this year; Minnesota fasola singers gather on Thanksgiving morning to sing, and my friend Jim is cooking Thanksgiving turkey; then we’re off to Iowa to do it all again with Mrs. Fasolamatt’s family on Saturday. A Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours …

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