Page 92 of The Christmas Yes List

“You do that.”

“She minds,” a thirteen-year-old boy, wiser than his years, cuts in.

“Do you mind?” James’s head swivels from the kid to me.

“Why would I mind?”

“When Mom says it just like that to Dad, she minds,” a six-year-old announces.

James, who now looks thoroughly like it’s time to back away, puts up his hands. “I’m sorry to have butted in. You were saying.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest. Purse my lips.

Several small pairs of eyes look up at me.

“Carry on,” he continues.

I just shake my head.

“Silent treatment,” a toothless five-year-old boy whispers rather ominously to him.

James inhales a deep breath and looks at the kids for support. Then, at last, he hunches his shoulders, beckons several over, and drops his hands down to his knees to get at eye level with them. They create their own huddle.

Whisper for several seconds.

Form a plan.

When he stands, several kids stand in solidarity at his side. “I’m sorry I said that the start of football begins with a kickoff instead of throw-off. And I’m sorry I said there were four downs instead of two.” He sounds like he’s reading off a piece of paper. Several kids nod approvingly as he continues. “And I’m sorry I said there were ten yards in a down. You are right.”

He pauses.

One kid knocks him in the side with his elbow.

“Those are all great points, and it was wrong of me to say anything when you are so smart. And wise. And pretty.”

One kid gives him a thumbs-up, like an encouraging, silent Nailed it.

It’s an absurd trick, saying he’s wrong when he was obviously right. Yet, looking at the slew of little boys and their hopeful faces, alongside even James, who looks so hopeful, well . . . I crack. I know he’s lying to me. I know I am absolutely wrong. But this ridiculous ploy clearly used by these kids’ fathers . . . works.

“Thank you,” I say.

And so begin the games.

James gets deeply into it—he’s downright passionate, actually, and his enthusiasm for what I discover is the sport he played rather competitively through elementary and middle school fuels a fire of excitement for the kids on his team. Which spurs my team on to try to match their efforts. Before long, people are gathering on the porch in amusement, watching the most authentic and enthusiastic game of Turkey Bowl the Hollis front yard has ever seen.

And for as bad as my initial instructions were, I’m not terrible, I will say.

I’m not James, of course. But I’m at least pretty good at stopping his plays a quarter of the time. Which by definition means one-fourth. Which I knew and would have remembered during the instructions if I’d had time to think.

After James throws to Jordan what feels like the billionth touchdown and Jordan, just a tiny James, cheers in triumph, I—panting from trying to hold up my side of the team (and let’s face it, I’ll admit I’m not the greatest athlete)—step up to James.

My hands are on my hips. My coat has long been discarded while sweat trickles down my sides. My poor hair that I spent way too long drying and styling this morning has been pulled back into a now-tangled ponytail. And whatever makeup I threw on I can guarantee has flown away in the wind. I’m wheezing slightly. My chest is tight. I would make the worst pioneer woman.

“Give us Jordan,” I pant.

“What?” James looks offended. “You can’t take players. We’re a team.”

“You’re slaughtering us.”