When I was in junior high and high school, a tradition began. On Thanksgiving--like many other dinners earlier--my mother would invite my aunt, who lived in a log cabin in Samaria. It wasn't that I didn't want to go with my dad to get her, in spite of the hour it took to get there and back. And it wasn't because she never started getting ready until we pulled in front of her house, so it automatically took another hour or more. It wasn't that it embarrassed me when she ironed her clothes while wearing a slip. The reason I didn't want to go was because of Dick Butkus. There was always a Bears game that day. I could sense when my dad would start looking for me to go with him to my aunt's house, and I would hide in the basement, each year thinking my new spot was better than the one I chose a year earlier. My dad found me every time. 
By the time we returned home from Samaria some three or four hours later, the game was over, and unlike today's football coverage, there was little information about the game. I had missed a game where I joyfully watched my favorite linebacker twist, tackle and bite other players on the field. I loved to watch the bears for the same reason I like hockey: that few instances in most events where grown adults throw their sticks and gloves in the air and do acts of violence.
Did I mention I like it in baseball when the dugouts empty and players charge onto the field, or when a manager kicks dirt on one of the men in black. I don't usually admit enjoying watching grown men act like children as much as I once did, but I will always be a Butkus fan. 
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