Ordinarily, my enthusiasm for football is solely due to its ability to provide me with three, sometimes even four uninterrupted hours on a Sunday afternoon. With the Big-Eyed Boy now old enough to sit right alongside his father and stuff his face with ordinarily forbidden foods until he passes out in a carb-induced semi-coma, I’m free to blog, read a magazine upstairs, sometimes even catch a nap.

My husband’s always seemed to prefer my absence during football games, possibly because my presence dampens his enthusiastic displays. I’m the kind of wife who keeps a quiet but watchful eye on the number of empty beer bottles piling up on the coffee table. The kind who doesn’t care how far off a quarterback’s pass was, it’s still not an excuse to knock potato chips and dip all over the carpet. And, yes, I’m the kind who loudly shushes her spouse whenever he’s screaming at the top of his lungs over a lame-ass play: “Dear, they can’t hear you. Stop screaming!”

Yesterday, our plans to have friends over to watch the Big Game with Hubby fell through at the last minute. Since I was the reason for the cancellation (another story in itself), I felt obligated to join him and at least fake enthusiasm. Besides, I figured, it’d give me a good excuse to have a martini at 5:30. So, after deciding that I was going to root for Seattle because I once lived there (and because their uniforms were awfully pretty), I sat down and prayed that there would be some good ads.

And then it happened — that thing that Hubby has been secretly praying for throughout the past 9 years we’ve known each other. I became a raving, screaming football fanatic.

It started when a ref called an offensive pass interference on Darrell Jackson, overturning a touchdown, when the ref clearly had his head too far up his ass (or maybe up Chris Hope’s?) to see the game being played right in front of him. And, although Jerramy Stevens broke my heart more than once, I wasn’t so bitter as to overlook the B.S. holding call on Sean Locklear that took the thunder out of Hasselbeck’s pass to him. Having it all topped off by a gimme to Ben Roethlisberger’s diving leap to the endzone — despite the ball never actually breaking the plane — well, it was enough to send me into a screaming frenzy that made Hubby sit back in mute awe and admiration.

Luckily, the Big-Eyed Boy was in bed long before they called a “block below the waist” on a tackler, because I think I actually managed to teach Hubby a few new swear words that time.

This morning, I could barely speak from the damage done to my vocal cords with each successive bad call and screw-up on Seattle’s part. My head throbbed from the post-game consolation martinis, and I fought back a wave of nausea when I saw the layer of crumbs and smeared dip coating the coffee table. Still, I was awake enough to understand Hubby when he asked if I’m now a confirmed football fan. Sure, I told him, I suppose so.

He seemed rather pleased at this and asked if I’d like to make a “romantic weekend” out of a trip to the Super Bowl if his team makes it into next year’s game. Considering how long it’s been since we’ve managed to squeeze in a “romantic weekend,” I can’t say I’m thrilled at the thought. But, hey, I figure I’m safe.

Hubby’s a Vikings fan.

Sucker.

Monday, February 6th, 2006, 12:13 pm   |   My Venomous Life  |  RSS feed Comments and pings are currently closed.