"Becoming a football fan usually happens naturally: you were raised in a family who liked to watch football, your high school boyfriend was the starting quarterback, or something about the game just spoke to you. But what happens when you’ve never developed a taste for the game — and you marry someone who absolutely loves it? It could mean many lonely winter months for you unless you learn to embrace the sport that has captivated your husband." Tori76 at Ehow
I was aware of the existence of football before I married. I grew up in Texas where high school football is a sort of "religious experience" but, outside of watching my brother carry his 400 pound tuba around in the marching band and going to the championship game to watch Eric Dickerson lead our Sealy Tigers to State in 1979, football and I existed in a parallel universe.
I married Shawn in May of 1989. What a beautiful summer it was. Yes, my husband would disappear on Saturday morning, only to return bloody, muddy, bruised, and happy in the afternoon. "I am man. I play football. I rub other man's face in mud and blood." This statement would be followed by a sort of primal guttural sound accompanied by an odd little dance resembling something out of the opening scene of The Crucible.
While I had never personally observed a man behave this way, I had heard of the phenomenon and thought it was cute and was happy to have him have this unique outlet in life. Why not? No harm is done (at least to me...I wasn't the one covered in blood and mud) and it's only a few hours on Saturday morning. Let the boy have some fun.
Summer progressed and oh, how I loved the Sundays of our first summer of marriage. We would come home from church, have a quick lunch together, and then cuddle up for a Sunday afternoon nap. Sigh...isn't marriage wonderful!
May melted into June which faded into July and August.
Then came September.
Something happens to a certain breed of men in September. The air turns crisp, the leaves start to change, and their little hearts begin to beat in faster palpitation at the thought of what is just around the corner - a new season of pigskin passing.
I was simply not prepared for this change. There were no warning signs before the insanity began. One Sunday he was mine and the next Sunday he was...WHERE WAS HE?
In retrospect, it might have been easier if we had taken time for a little talk beforehand, kind of like Lon Cheney explaining his unique transformation in the old werewolf movies. "Honey, I know this will be hard for you to understand. I don't understand it myself but every year at about this time I.......change. Something possesses me and I become a mad, howling creature. It will be shocking and horrifying for you but you must be strong. I can overcome it if you'll only stick with me, baby."
But we didn't do that.
I remember the first Sunday of football season, 1989. We had a lovely time at church, I came home and prepared lunch, and then slipped off into the bedroom to prepare for our naptime. I waited....and waited. What on earth is he doing out there? I padded out to find my man.
To my horror, there, in my own living room, I beheld an entirely new mutant curiosity. Something that looked like my husband had parked itself in front of the television, surrounded by Dorito bags and sausage, with it's feet up on the coffee table. Whatever it was, it was completely oblivious to anything happening in the world around it, including the fact that it was Sunday afternoon and "naptime."
"What are you doing?" I asked the lump that had taken over my husband. There was no response so I gently kicked it. "Hello? You in there?" Blank eyes returned my inquiry while a numb and trembling hand raised a dorito to the creatures mouth.
I did what any normal frantic wife would do in such a situation where her husband is obviously sick and in need of intervention. I stood in front of the television.
This got his attention.
"HEY, YOU'RE BLOCKING THE GAME!"
"Yes, dear...are you alright? It's Sunday afternoon. This is when we always...."
"GET OUT OF THE WAY. SOMETHING MIGHT BE....ARGH...I MISSED IT!" (insert soundtrack of wild screams of "playback, playback")
Obviously, I did not know this person who was currently incapable of conversation so I went off to my room to contemplate this new development. Mom said there would be days like this. Well, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day.
Yes, it was another day. It was Monday.
I came home from a day of school and work, prepared dinner, and planned for an evening of "making up" for what was missed yesterday afternoon.
It was then that I was introduced to another cultural phenomena of which I was previously unaware: Monday Night Football.
The creature was back.
The rest of the week went well. I noticed he was disappearing into the bathroom with the newspaper more but, perhaps, he was just concerned about Saddam Hussein and the situation in Kuwait and wanted to be more informed.
Then Saturday came. I was accustomed by this point to the Saturday morning games with the buddies. But now a new friend came into my life: College teams.
There were no end to them! They played back to back, on every channel, ALL DAY!
There he was again...the "thing" that took over my husband's body and mind. Sitting on my couch, eating expensive food, responding in grunts, with an occasional scream and rant and a thousand choice comments about coaches, referees, linebackers, and other strange and unusual new vocabulary words.
Something had to be done to reign this creature in...and quickly.
NEXT POST: Confessions of a Football Widow, pt 2: I Attempt to Rescue my Husband from Football
