Frankism Thursday: The Trouble With Black Quarterbacks

As the NFL football season comes to a close, I thought I’d share another funny story about my father. (Remember, in my very first “Frankisms” post, I stated that “. . . most of them [Frankisms] come from what he interprets as what you said and then stating what he thinks you said, instead of asking you to repeat what you said for clarification. He thinks its funnier that way.”)

I also may have mentioned before that, when I was growing up, Sunday breakfast in our house was a pretty big deal. My dad would read the paper pretty soon after the rooster crowed (we really didn’t have a rooster, but he got up early), and when he was done, he’d start cutting potatoes, whisking eggs, chopping peppers and onions, and about an hour later, a feast was awaiting us.

Then, when breakfast was over (between the months of September and January), my dad would sit “in his spot” on the couch and watch football. All day–sometimes napping here and there, while still sitting upright. (It used to remind me of how horses slept standing up . . .)

Anyway, one Sunday morning, he was making it very well known to all of us that he was “not happy” with the way one of the teams had been playing–the quarterback in particular.

“Look at him . . . running around like a slowpoke. Get rid of the ball, dammit!”

A few minutes later, he shouted, “See? A sack! He just let them pull him down . Why don’t they put someone else in?!”

Feeling bad for the quarterback, I decided to come to his defense.

“Dad!,” I said, “It’s not his fault! The blockers aren’t blocking the quarterback!”

When I said that, he jumped. Then he turned and looked at me–as if surprised at what I’d said.

Then, with a look and tone of honest and true sincerity (something that was rare for my father), he “explained” to me:

“Kathy . . . Washington doesn’t have a black quarterback.”

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01 2008

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  1. Fashion Paramedic #

    A comment from one of my sisters:

    That is a true “Frankism”! I was laughing for 10 minutes!

    I remember smelling those big breakfasts just waking up on Sunday morning following an all-nighter at the Union Hall in Old Sac. By the time I got up, the big breakfast had dwindled down to a half of a cup of scrambled chorizo and eggs, and approximately 5 little pieces of dad’s famous fried potatoes. All sitting on a small saucer plate in the middle of the stove. Then, he would say, “Are you hungry? There’s some food sitting on the stove!”

  2. Lisa Lisa #

    OMG! That is “Frankism”. Potatoes were cut in perfect cubes all the same size. Was it Sunday mornings? I was too young to remember. That’s the best thing about him is that he tells you how it is OR how he feels it is. There is much more “Frankism” to be told. I’ll stay tooned :o)

    Great post!

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