More Christmas

Exactly once each year, my mom permitted herself the luxury of a nap. That was on Christmas day. As for any momentous occasion, there was a strict protocol that had to be followed. After cleaning up the wrapping paper and repositioning the gifts under the tree, she'd tell her sons to go and play in the basement. Then she'd retire to the bedroom, with only her Salems and her Sun-Times for company.

And oh, what a sinkhole of iniquity that basement would become. My brother, Jimmy, was a rude, hefty boy with a fondness for hockey sticks and Chef Boyardee. Being that this was Christmas and there were no Stooges or Flintstones on TV to occupy his otherwise limited attention span, it was only a matter of time before he began wrapping his sweaty paws around my brother, Tom’s, brand-new Voit football. Imagine! On Christmas day, no less, our innocent, knotty-pine basement was turned into a post-Hobbesian world where might was king and the gangster glorified. If poor little Tom even hinted at telling mom, Jimmy’d sneer, "She’s sleeping, dope. You can’t bother her."

A few hours later, after Jimmy’s hockey stick privileges had been rescinded for another year, we’d go out back to play tackle football. Unfortunately, the yard was barely the length of a first down. The concept of a breakaway run reproduced the oldest of nightmares. Just when you thought you’d escaped your pursuers, you had to turn around and face them again. Not surprisingly, when Jimmy was carrying the ball, he'd giggle at this point and even his teammates would become fair game.