The Golden Rule

Unless there is imminent danger of death or disfigurement, you children pretty much walk all over me.

Yet, I do have one rule. Consider it my Golden Rule. No, not that Golden Rule they teach you in school to treat others as you would like to be treated.

No, no, no.

This is a much more important rule. It’s about integrity and honor. It’s about steering the young ones down the right path. I consider this to be perhaps my greatest parental responsibility.

You see, all of the McGuire children learn this Golden Rule from the cradle, whispered into their tiny ears a thousand times as they drift off to sleep in my arms.

These three words are the third, fourth, and fifth words they all learned after Daddy and Mommy.

“I Hate Dallas.”

Simple.

You want to be a McGuire, you hate the Dallas Cowgirls. I don’t mean just dislike or disinterest. I mean that intense, obsessive type of hate that is bad for you. The kind that makes you want to spit on people and puncture tires just for wearing a jersey.

You don’t even have to like football. But, you sure as hell have to hate Dallas.

Sorry, but my love is conditional. You want me to love you, you hate Dallas. You want me to love you more than I love the other children, show me how you hate Dallas more than they hate Dallas.

You want to love Dallas, you get out of my home and never look back. There’s no place for your kind here. 

That goes for you too Fiona. You are the sparkle in my eye, but I’d soon as stick a stick in that eye than gaze upon you in a Dallas jersey. And, forget about me attending, let alone paying for, any wedding where you’re marrying into a Dallas clan.

America’s Team, my ass.

Why do McGuires hate Dallas so, aside from the fact we bleed New York Giants Blue?

Why do the good guys always hate the bad guys? Why does everyone hate the Nazis or the North Koreans?

To my boundless joy, Frankie signed up for the 911 Flag Football league. He’s a bit smaller and younger than most of his team and opponents, likely the youngest player in the entire 9- and 10-year-old division. But, he has great speed and good hands and a passion for the game.

Plus, he just loves that mouth guard. Won’t even take it off on the sidelines.

As a Dad, watching your kid’s pee-wee football game is unlike any other sporting experience, at least for me. Frankie played baseball, basketball, and soccer. But nothing gets me pumped when he takes to the gridiron, pacing up and down the sidelines, muttering my Hail Marys that he’ll catch a Hail Mary.

Imagine my anticipation when Frankie’s Packers faced off against the dreaded Dallas Cowgirls.

I know, I know, they’re not the real Dallas Cowgirls, but for us, it might as well be. For the McGuires, it was a big deal (well, except for Mommy). Even Grandpa waddled out on the sidelines to catch this momentous rivalry.

Did Frankie get up for the game?

Did he ever.

My boy, my first-born, had not one but two interceptions to suffocate two rallies by the Cowgirls.

Count ‘em baby, two interceptions.

Oh lordy, lordy, lordy, did I make a complete ass out of myself on the sidelines that day.

It didn’t matter. That glorious day, as a sweaty, dirty, banged up Frankie swaggered off the field with the game ball, smothered in pats and pounds from coaches, teammates, and their parents, I felt proud of my boy and happy for his success.

Frankie had learned the Golden Rule quite well.