Spring Football Season

I spotted her up on a grassy hill, head lowered, front feet splayed.

She turned in a tight circle. I caught sight of tiny white ears in her shadow.

Spring football season was about to begin.

This time, the field was about a half mile.

Each team had only one player, the ewe and me.

My goalposts were at the barn where the ewe and her baby would be safe. The mysterious location of her goalposts varied.

The lamb was the football so a passing game was off-limits.

I planned to let the ewe play offense first, leading the lamb downfield until the baby got tired. Then I would pick him up and carry him at my vulnerable knee-height to keep the defense’s attention.

Most ewes are not great defensive players – after all, what do they really have to work with? -- so I expected to make a touchdown.

This ewe had been practicing during the offseason.

I stepped closer to her, expecting her to turn and walk away. Instead, she faced me, pawing the ground.

As a good defensive linebacker, I hunched low and stepped closer.

She circled her lamb, nudging it away from me, gaining only a yard.

At this rate, we would get to the barn just in time for fall football season.

I called delay of game.

My turn on offense. I picked up the baby.

The ewe rammed my knee.

It wasn’t actually a tackle, but at this rate, I would be crippled before I made a touchdown.

I relinquished the football.

The ewe pulled a quarterback sneak, taking off with lamb dashing behind her, trotting toward her secret invisible goalposts down in the coulee.

Her bleating sounded like the roar of the cheering crowd.

As I sprinted to block her progress, I realized I should have been practicing during the off-season, too.

I also realized that I had played this opponent before.

I made the same chase from the same hill last year.

I checked my record book.

I had scratched a note next to this ewe’s number – Good Mother.

That’s my euphemism for a formidable football opponent -- cranky, mean and aggressive.

I use it for ewes, cows and several people.

A few of them are my relatives.

Some of them are my friends.

I am familiar with this ewe’s game plan.

Fortunately, the lamb got tired and laid down before the ewe scored her touchdown.

I switched to offense, picked up the lamb and headed for my goalposts with a roof, warding off a barrage of attempted headbutts with one outstretched hand.

I was just glad I wasn’t packing two footballs.

An hour later, I scored.

The ewe and her baby settled safely in barn straw.

The next day, I played Game Two of the spring football season.

Gardenia, who I raised on a bottle, lost the coin flip so she started on defense.

She used a different strategy, but she was just as aggressive as my first opponent.

I played running back with her baby while she leaned in against my leg, shoving me toward the secret invisible goalposts in the coulee.

Defensive lineman Gardenia outweighed this running back.

I tucked the lamb under my arm, then spun my way out of Gardenia’s tackles.

She might be bigger than I am, but she is also faster.

With every one of my quick spins, Gardenia muttered and grunted her way back to leaning on my right leg.

I began to get dizzy, but I clutched the lamb and kept moving.

Forty-five minutes later, I scored.

Not without a price, though.

As I tossed flakes of hay to my opponents, I promised myself I will work out during the off-season.