As a kid growing up on the impolite streets (my neighborhood wasn’t the nicest in town, but I’m not sure they’d qualify as “mean”) of Trenton, New Jersey, Thanksgiving Day was always about football and turkey. Not necessarily in that order.

I served a brief stint as a Detroit Lions fan as a teenager, partly because of Barry Sanders’ awesomeness and partly from seeing them play on Thanksgiving each year. My high school played its annual rivalry game every Thanksgiving morning. There might have even been the occasional two-hand touch game if people weren’t too scattered.

Around 5 p.m. the turkey or ham would be ready. It was one of the few times each year when we’d clean the clutter off the kitchen table and sit down as a family to eat, yet we’d still angle the TV to where we could see the Cowboys game.

Through college and my first few years in Mississippi, it was much the same. Watch the Lions while the turkey cooked, eat turkey while the Cowboys played, and then go into a tryptophan-induced coma when “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” came on around 7. Once or twice I ventured north to cover the Egg Bowl.

When I got married, though, this all changed. I somehow married into one of the few families in Mississippi where football and Thanksgiving do not go hand in hand.

No backyard games. No appointment viewing to watch the Barry Sanders-less Lions get destroyed like a sweet potato casserole at dinner time. If I’m lucky, the TV will be turned to the Lions game with the sound turned down. More often, it’s either glued to the Macy’s Parade or some random episode of “Good Luck Charlie” on The Disney Channel.

Don’t ask. There’s a lot of kids at our Thanksgiving gatherings. Changing the channel without a consensus is not an option.

We eat in the early afternoon, and after food it’s family time. That usually goes on into the late afternoon, and by the time we get home it’s around halftime of the Cowboys game. If the NFL Network hadn’t come along and added the night game, I might be going on a decade of not seeing more than a few downs of Thanksgiving football.

I love my in-laws and extended family, but for a sports writer that’s a down right embarrassing streak.

I’ve tried to come up with some solutions, like repeatedly wondering aloud what the score is and hoping someone gets the hint. Or changing the channel while everyone goes for butter beans and the living room is empty. Maybe my luck will be better than Charlie’s, and no one will notice.

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Ernest Bowker is a sports writer. He can be reached at 601-619-7120 or by email at ernest.bowker@vicksburgpost.com