I lived in 12 states growing up on the gridiron with a football coach father. He called me Aunt Gertrude because I was moody, especially when it came to saying good-bye to each place. When my father yelled, "Get your ass in the car, Aunt Gertrude," every moving day (there were 4 when it mattered) I stared at every visible detail around me - house, tree, mailbox, friend's face - so I would not forget.
If I cried, "But I don't want to leave my friends, my home," the coach said, "Bullshit. We got football games to win. Now get your ass in the car. You won't even remember these people. You want to stay in this town your whole life? You want me to be a banker clocking in at five everyday to help you with your homework? What kind of bullshit life is that, Aunt Gertrude?"
I cried at the curb while my brothers wrestled in the backseat and my sister sat up front with my mother ready to face a new adventure, a new mascot, a new team. But I vowed not to forget as I reluctantly climbed in the backseat with my brothers and our black lab, who let me cry on his neck and hold on to him as we drove out of town.
I held on to each and every football town we ever lived. But I didn't hold on to my nickname, Aunt Gertrude. I left that behind and football a long time ago.
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