This weekend, after watching as much of the NFL playoffs as the kids could stomach, we grabbed a nerf and headed out to play some football. Our youngest (who’s only three), wasn’t interested so we set up a three-person game.

For those interested in how to play touch football with three people, here’s what I came up with… We plopped down a couple of cones in the backyard to mark each endzone. My team (the wolves) started from my own endzone. We had four downs to score a touchdown. If we were unsuccessful, my wife’s team (the cheetahs) started from wherever we were stopped – and had four downs to reach our endzone. Our five year old joined whichever team was on offense, meaning it was always two on offense vs one on defense. It was tag not tackle (of course), and the QB was not allowed to run with the ball. The defender was also not allowed to go after the QB. We alternated who was the QB every down.

That was a lot of explanation. Sorry about that. I’m glad you’re still with me. Here comes the funny bit.

It was my turn to be on offense. In the huddle, I told C that after he hiked it to me, he should run around behind me and I’d hand it off to him. Then he should run behind me while I blocked his momma.

The play started out beautifully. He hiked the ball to me and faked going out for a pass, then remembered the plan and ran around behind me. I handed him the ball and set out to block.

The problem was that I didn’t know which way he was going to run. I spread my arms wide and jigged back and forth while I moved forward, trying to block his mom from as much of the field as possible. She started making noises like “oh-no” and “I’m gonna get you!” It apparently was pretty intense for the little guy. While my wife backpedalled to avoid my slow approach, I could hear him shouting and laughing and making weird little “uh”, “ah” noises.

Then his mother collapsed, giggling uncontrollably. I glanced back over my shoulder.

Apparently, my jigging had inspired him. He was still back where I’d handed him the ball, doing what could only be called a funky dance. Grinning from ear to ear, he was hopping back and forth with the ball, striking poses, and making the grunting noises I mentioned earlier. Occasionally, he’d spin just for good measure.

Since his mom was incapacitated with the giggles, I waved frantically to him, pointing to the endzone. He snapped out of his dance routine and ran for it.

Seven points for the wolves.