When you are an eight-year-old boy, it is a guarantee that a good time will be had by all when the following occurs:
You run like your mama is chasing you:
You tackle like your mama isn't watching:
You quarterback a play by saying, "One 'ssippi, two 'ssippi , HUT!!" And all understand you.
You kick without worrying about nearby windows.
You smile in a way that convinces your parents to accept that it really is great to be eight.
For Chandler, there is no greater joy than gathering a few of his buddies for a game of flag football. Forget rented inflatables or hired entertainers or ponies that travel in an agonizingly slow circle. Nothing says celebration for him like a worn-out football, some freshly cut grass and a few of his favorite friends.
A penalty for excessive celebration caused this team to have to take it back to the trampoline. (Georgia fan anyone? Anyone? Hellooo....)
It's true. The rumors circulating are correct. What you might have heard was accurate and right on the money: Eight really is great. And a good time was had by all.
Even by Chandler's mama.