Well, well folks - it’s Thanksgiving again!  For some of us it’s a time to overeat, become a couch potato and watch some good football.  For me, Thanksgiving represents the one day in my life where it’s acceptable to have a beer at my parent’s house.  In fact, Thanksgiving was the first time I ever had a beer in front of my father.  Each year, I’m reminded of the simple pleasure of popping a cold one with my old man, talking about life and which team we think is going all the way in both the BCS and the NFL.

The first time I ever had a brew with my old man was when I was 18 years old.  It was my senior year of high schol and I had just signed to play football at UCLA.  He knew the opportunity to sit around the house and B.S. with his youngest son was coming to an end, I was just looking for the chance to down some suds and not got grounded.  My dad’s from Texas, so naturally his favorite beer is Lone Star, but in its absence he likes to drink Budweiser.  So on that particular Thursday afternoon the beers would be ice cold, bottled Budweisers.

My mother was upstairs tending to my older brother and his latest steady girlfriend, so my dad and I snuck out to the back yard.  We brought the beers, a tennis ball and the family German Shepherd.  My dad threw the ball for the anxious K-9 and had his first gulp of Bud.  Nervously, I followed suit with my own.  He started in with the whole “Well, son you’re all grown up now …” speech, but there was something different in him that day.  He had been visibly shaken on my 18th birthday, his youngest son was all grown up.  Now I could see the emotion starting to well up in him.

My father had raised both my older brother and I in his own mold.  He had played football in college, and had a small stint in Minor League Baseball.  My older brother was the baseball player, going on to play at a small private school in San Diego.  I, on the other hand, had taken to football and was headed to Westwood for school.  My father had a deep appreciation for UCLA and its winning tradition, and was very proud of the fact that I was headed there in a few months.  On this day, however, the often selfish love of a father shown threw.  As happy as he was that I was going, he was sad to see me leave.

See, my father wasn’t the type that you would find in an episode of “Beyond the Glory” or “E! True Hollywood Story”, he was always there for me.  He taught me how to throw a baseball, shoot a basketball and make a tackle.  My successes had always been his successes and he knew I was always happy to share the limelight with him.  Going to UCLA was the culmination of both his and my hard work, yet he knew at this point his hard work was done.  He would be able to rest his head at night, knowing he had reached his goal of seeing me advance to a new level of competition, one that most prep players would never see.

As I saw his eyes begin well up with emotion, the warm and blurry moisture started to flow from me as well.  We looked at each other with the utmost admiration and respect for one another, not as father and son but as two men who had spent a lifetime working towards one goal.  I embraced him tightly recalling my time as a young boy getting in a three point stance in our backyard.  And he held me tight as if I were still small enough to hang from his neck - recalling the times I used to attempt to tackle him in the halls of our home.

We didn’t say a word to each other, we both knew exactly what the other meant in his look.  The tennis ball was thrown a few more times and the German Shepherd was glad to chase it.  Budweisers finished, we headed back into the house to watch John Madden give away the 8-legged turkey to Emmit Smith.

To this day that tradition remains.  We grab a beer, head to the backyard and toss the ball for my father’s dog.  We talk about life and football and enjoy a nice brew.  This year I’m bringing down a case of Firestone from San Luis Obispo.  I can’t wait!

Let us know what beer you drink with your father, drop us a line in the comments section.