FATHERS, SONS HAVE FOOTBALL.

Byline: VINCENT BONSIGNORE

Not long ago I went to a high school football game with the idea of watching and observing from the stands with all the other fans.

I ended up taking a trip down memory lane.

A few minutes into the game, I was struck by a middle-aged man sitting by himself along the first row of the bleacher seats.

I sat there watching this excitable, emotional man put on a little show as each play unfolded down on the field. The wringing of the hands, the pained facial expressions and the shouts of encouragement mixed in with groans of disappointment.

He yelled at the referees when he thought they blew a call and stomped his feet in anger when a play went awry or a pass fell incomplete.

It didn't take long to figure out the man was a father watching his son play.

In that respect, he was no different than thousands of other fathers who were doing the same exact thing at the same exact time at football fields across America. He was just another father watching his son, living and dying with every single play on a glorious Friday night.

Fathers watching sons play high school football, a tradition so rich it's become part of the American fabric.

The only difference was that this father just happened to be the famous actor Denzel Washington, and the son he was watching was Campbell Hall of North Hollywood's J.D. Washington.

But it didn't matter. It never does when it comes to fathers and sons and football. On that night, Denzel Washington was just another dad.

Actually, he reminded me a little bit of my old man.

My two brothers and I got a very early indoctrination into football and what it meant to our father when we moved to Florida from New York in the early 1970s.

I was just a little kid, but I knew Florida was quite a bit different than the place we just moved from. We were the Italian family surrounded by people who looked and sounded totally different than we did. It wasn't until years later that I figured out we were the ones with the funny-sounding accents, but back then all I could think of was we had settled down in Mayberry RFD.

Despite all our differences, something very wonderful brought us all together.

The common link was the local high school football team - the Merritt Island Mustangs.

For a little kid who dreamed about playing quarterback for the New York Giants, the Mustangs were the closest possible thing to my fantasy. I can close my eyes now and still see their distinct black and gold uniforms sparkling under the lights, and in my ears I can still hear the colorful band playing the fight song over and over again.

And boy, could the Mustangs play football. Merritt Island was good in those days, real good. I remember they won the state championship in 1972, and if you've ever seen high school football in the Sunshine State, you know that's quite an accomplishment.

The entire town of Merritt Island closed down every Friday night the Mustangs played. You have to understand, the Mustangs weren't just a team, they were our team. Each week we'd fill the hometown stadium to cheer them on, or caravan to their away games to support them on the road. It was the thing to do, and my brothers and I soaked up every last bit of it.

Thanks to my father, who dragged his three little sons to every single game. Looking back, my dad had no real reason to go to Merritt Island games - my brothers and I were not yet old enough to play in high school and my dad had no friends with sons on the team. He was just a football fanatic. As a result, so were we.

I can still remember the excitement I felt as a little kid watching the Mustangs - they looked like giants to me then - under those Friday-night lights playing in front of all those people.

One day my father nudged me, then glanced over to the field.

``One of these days, you'll be out there playing,'' he said.

It seemed like a fantasy. Little ol' me growing up big and tall and playing football. It seemed impossible at the time.

Isn't that the way it always is as a kid? You seem so small and insignificant, while everything around you seems so big, almost unattainable.

``I don't know about that, Dad,'' I said, my voice a little shaky.

He just smiled.

``Eh, you'll see, Vin,'' he said, his thick New York accent cutting into the night.

As in most football families, Friday night was just the beginning of an entire sports weekend for the Bonsignores, or Bon-sig-nor-ees as they called us in Florida. On Saturday, we'd do our chores, then settle in front of the TV to watch Notre Dame (my dad's team, and thus ours) or the hated hometown Florida State Seminoles.

On Sunday, it was church, then home for an afternoon of pasta and meatballs and the New York Giants (my dad's favorite team, thus ours) on TV or the hated hometown Miami Dolphins.

But for me, Friday night was always the best. The smell of the grass, the bright lights flickering under a dark sky. And me sitting there with my dad and brothers wondering what it would be like to be on the field playing.

Somehow, someway I finally made it to the field. I played at Ventura High School - not all that well, I might add - an offensive/defensive lineman a little too short and much too slow. I guess it's no wonder I ended up a sportswriter rather than a New York Giant.

Not that my limited physical skills stopped my dad from coming to every single practice and game, rooting me on like I was the star quarterback. I can close my eyes now and still see him in the stands.

Just another dad watching his son play high school football.