I decided tonight that I’m not cut out to be a football fan.
Previous to getting married, I didn’t care at all about football. It was one sport that seemed confusing and pointless to me. (Okay, so that pretty much applied to all sports, save baseball.)
But you know, you get married, and you try to take interest in the things your spouse enjoys. And when those interests mean spending countless Sundays at their house, watching a game, eating dinner, and watching a second game (or girl talk, eating dinner, and girl talk) it’s not such a heavy cross to bear.
Slowly, I began to retain information about the sport. It was a huge triumph for me this fall when, for the first year ever, I remembered what a “down” was without having it explained to me again. That was the first step toward getting on board. Maybe this game made a bit of sense, after all.
With my interest piqued, we entered what would turn out to be a sensational season, at least for someone married to a New England born-and-raised boy. I got hooked. How could you not, when week after week, your team won? …And won well, I might add.
I knew I was turning into a bit of a fan, especially when I voluntarily dressed my son in his jersey for church this morning, without Ryan asking even once. (Jerseys to church aren’t generally kosher in my book.)
But the moment I knew how deep this fanaticism had gone? When the Giants scored the deciding touchdown and tears sprang to my eyes. The only reason I didn’t honestly cry was that we were with other people, and I was mortified to think they’d see my red-ringed eyes and laugh.
I contemplated slipping into the bathroom to let it all out, but decided against that. I reminded myself that somehow my brother-in-law makes it through heart-rending disappointments without crying (to my knowledge), and that I needed to be strong for my husband.
Shortly thereafter, right around the end of the game, I decided I just don’t have the thick skin it requires to be a sports fan.
I am officially returning to my non-competitive lifestyle.