There's a distinctive odor in the air, and it's not the aroma of autumn leaves burning. It's a pungent blend of sweaty socks, athletic tape adhesive, musk and Right Guard.

It's called testosterone, and it fuels a male's need to measure himself physically against other males.

Cut to the chase: The Boy wants to play football.

He's in eighth grade, but many of his friends are high school freshmen, and some of them are playing JV ball, and I haven't heard the end of it since July.

We're a sports-minded family, but football hasn't been discussed much around the house in years. At least not since the 49ers started tanking and my husband became a golf junkie. So far, we've been able to distract our son with soccer, paddling and assorted other activities.

So what's changed? The Boy, that's what, with his deep voice, micro-mustache, body hair, size-11 feet and newfound interest in weight training.

Add to the mix such TV shows and movies as "Friday Night Lights," "Gridiron Gang," and MTV's "Two-A-Days," which highlight football's gladiator culture and camaraderie.

And especially "300," a graphic depiction of the suicidal stand by a band of Spartans against invading Persians at Thermopylae in 480 B.C.

That movie was a big hit at home, and since its release, the Boy has been known on occasion to strike a pose and proclaim, "This is Sparta!"

I get it, I really do. My dad and brother played high school football (both suffered career-ending injuries), and the game provided great thrills during my high school and college days. I still enjoy watching football and admire its hard-working and dedicated participants. I have no problem whatsoever with parents who let their kids play football.

I guess that makes me a hypocrite, because since the day he emerged from the womb, I swore that no son of mine would ever touch the pigskin. With so many other sports to choose from, it seemed like an unnecessary risk.

But he's wearing me down.

Maybe we should let him go out for the team next year and get knocked around for a week or two so he can see just how much fun it is. Or maybe he can play only on defense, where he could deliver the hits instead of being on the receiving end. (Can you picture that? "Uh, excuse me, Coach, but I'm the Boy's mother, and I was just wondering if it's OK if he plays a position where he's least likely to get hurt." Riiight.)

Then, just as my son was nearing the end zone, that NFL player suffered a nearly fatal spinal-cord injury, and it's back to second and long.

Since high school tryouts aren't until next summer, there's plenty of time left on the clock to make the call. I think I'll punt and hope something else catches his fancy in the meantime.

Reach Christie Wilson at cwilson@honoluluadvertiser.com.