Feeding the Boys

My husband Rob and I are Georgetown grads, and we have season tickets to GU basketball. This season I watched a few games from my comfy sofa, when I didn’t feel like driving into the city on a dark and freezing Tuesday evening. Rob skipped one game, the weekend we had over 30 inches of snow, and he was desperately trying to borrow a sleigh right up until game time.

We sit next to each other at the games, but we have different experiences. Rob, a lifelong player, referee and coach, analyzes the plays, discusses strategy and protests all calls against our team. I know what’s happening on the court, but I also check out all the cute babies, watch mascot Jack the Bulldog pant, and look forward to slapping the players’ hands as they run in and out of the arena. Occasionally I can make eye contact, and they will smile back at me—especially lanky freshman Hollis Thompson, who is consistently charming to the middle-aged lady fan in the purple scarf in section 103, row G, seat 7.

I also overhear great stuff. Last year a group of young men, fans of the opposing team, were discussing guard Austin Freeman who was having a stellar game. “He’s so slow!” they exclaimed. Freeman, who looks like he could bench-press 6’10’’ center Greg Monroe, is a legitimate NBA pick and gets up and down the court just fine. When he does something particularly brilliant, my son Tom and I remark, “Slowpoke makes good.”

But my very favorite pastime at the games is to plan a dinner for the team. Some of my fondest memories of my kids’ high school basketball careers were the team dinners—serving pulled pork, cornbread, mac and cheese, vats of salad and brownie sundaes to thirty-plus athletes. I always made way more food than I thought we needed, and no matter how much there was, someone could usually manage to down a fourth sandwich or scrape the chicken caesar bowl clean.

Feeding those Georgetown players, though, that would be a challenge. I think of them eating mediocre cafeteria food and my maternal instinct goes into overtime. What would they like? I wonder. Pot roast and garlic mashed potatoes? Chicken parmesan? Homemade deep dish pizza? All of the above, with chasers of ribs and potato salad?

I picture the boys coming in to the room, smiling shyly, sniffing the air. After they have piled their oversized plates high and begun to feast, I cruise the room with platters of veggies and massive tubs of fruit salad, urging seconds and thirds. Because they are Coach Thompson’s crew, I know they are polite young men, but I don’t expect them to make conversation. I just want them to have a good home-cooked meal and enjoy it. When they have eaten more than their fill, I press packets of chocolate chip cookies, blondies, and trail mix into their hands for midnight snacks.

The people to whom I’ve confided this fantasy have mostly laughed uproariously. Our friend Peter, a Villanova grad, told me the athletic department would probably think I was a stalker. My brother-in-law Michael, himself a GU alum, said he could think of better ways to spend over $500. I disagree; just the thought of watching the team put away Costco’s on-hand supply of organic beef gives me a thrill.

It is an odd dream, I guess. Why would I want to go through the work, schlep the supplies, and figure out how keep fifteen banquet trays of food warm for the vicarious thrill of watching very large young men eat? It’s a little hard to explain, but I think it’s because they work so hard. I know Rob looks at them and sees trained athletes. I see really big boys, just the ages of my own three kids.

It could happen. Earlier this season I broached the idea to the Hoya Hoops Club (the basketball boosters) president, Al, who listened to my proposition, drew in a long breath and said, thoughtfully, “Well, it’s not against NCAA rules.” Still, Coach would have to approve, and I realize that as March madness looms, the idea of scheduling the dinner hosted by the slightly crazy lady is low on his list.

But Coach, and Austin, Hollis, Greg and all you guys, know I am waiting in the stands, ready to take menu requests. Even Rob would be excited at the prospect of feeding the GU boys. He could discuss the season. Me? I’d be happy to serve thirds on dessert, and maybe score a few smiles.