As part of our mission here at Why Daddy Drinks to revel in the humorous lunacy that is fatherhood, and to promote the drinking of quality beverages, we bring you our weekly segment highlighting something that should be in your glass. This is The Drink Of The Weekend.

My God, do I love watching football. It’s too bad my kids always find a way to interrupt me in the middle of a game, though.

Anyone who has kids knows what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter what you are watching, or doing. When you have kids, they inherently know that when you are doing something that you want to do, that is the EXACT time to ask you, no, demand that you drop whatever you are doing and get them another cup of juice, some more raisins and goldfish or dig out that one toy that they haven’t thought about in seven months, but is now suddenly the center of their three-and-four-year-old universes.

And one of the times my kids inevitably do this to me is when I am trying to watch a football game, usually involving my alma mater, Washington State, or my hometown Seattle Seahawks. I can plan all week for those three-plus hours of glorious football watching, and give my daughters, Maddo and Little Sis, all the milk and cookies they could want and an iPad each to watch kids shows on Netflix to their hearts’ content. They will still find a reason to climb all over me, or spill something that will disrupt my viewing just at the same time my team is in the middle of a drive that ends in a touchdown.

Fortunately, the DVR helps, as I can pause whatever I am watching and come back after taking Little Sis to the potty and not miss a play. Still, all these interruptions end up turning an already three-plus-hour TV commitment into over four hours, and with more starts and stops than a Greyhound bus ride from Chicago to Oakland.

All this racket also takes its toll on another or my football-watching traditions: Eating chicken wings and drinking good beer. I don’t have the physical ability to really get plastered, nor the bounceback capabilities of my younger days, which is part of the reason I avoid water-in-can like Bud Light and Coors Light. Also, those beers suck. No, I’m drinking for quality these days. And that’s why when I’m watching football, I go for something like Dale’s Pale Ale, from Oskar Blues Brewing Co. out of Longmont, Colo.

The first time I heard about Dale’s was in a brief article in Esquire magazine. Esquire called it “a miracle in microbrewing, canning and convenience” and Esquire was right. However, it took me a while to find Dale’s; in fact, I did have any until I found it at the new BevMo store in Tacoma, Wash., in 2012. I picked up a six pack, drank a couple, and muled the rest back 700 miles to Oakland, all the while imagining myself to be a modern-day Jerry Reed driving that truck full of Coors from Texarkana to Georgia in “Smokey And The Bandit.” When I finally found Dale’s down here, I nearly cried with happiness.

Cold, refreshing and hoppy, that’s Dale’s Pale Ale. And it comes in a can, which as much as I like drinking out of glass bottles, or my Wazzu mug, always adds an extra feeling of manliness to the process. Plus, it’s named for a guy named Dale. We don’t see too many yuppie parents going for the World War II-era names of their grandfathers like Dale, Earl and Frank. Those names saved the world. And Dale, at least, is making beer to be proud of.

I drank a couple of Dale’s while watching Wazzu thoroughly handled Southern Utah, 48-10. If Oskar (another great name) made an Earl’s IPA, I would load up my truck with it right now.