When Football Is the Center of Attention
You guys loved this article from this football widow who isn’t in mourning!
It’s nearly midnight and my husband is collecting books from our living room shelf and tossing them fiercely to the ground. As they fall, the volumes bounce off a wad of clothing-two sweatshirts and an NFL jersey.
Jon, normally mild in manner and balanced in emotion, storms up the stairs and returns clutching two red-and-blue fleece blankets. He gathers everything up and shoves the items in a garbage bag and stomps off to the bedroom to shove these prize belongings behind battered suitcases and piles of old shoes.
It’s nearly midnight on Monday night, and the Buffalo Bills just lost. Again.
I’m a sports fan; in the late 1990s, the Detroit Red Wings had the power to make me scream in rage and cry in joy. It runs in the family – last week my younger sister shed tears because the Detroit Pistons traded the team captain for Allen Iverson. I get passion. I get escapism in this horrible economy, in this uncertain world.
Ever since he could understand sports, Jon has alternatively loved and hated the Bills. I’m told by his mother that in 1999, when the Tennessee Titans beat the Bills in the playoffs, Jon slammed his 19-year-old head on the floor.
My husband’s passion for the Bills runs deep and vehement. He is there for them, and just once, he wants them to be there for him.
We get DirecTV Sunday Ticket, which means we see every NFL game every week from every corner of the good ol’ U.S. of A. Jon will not make plans on Sundays during football season. He arranges his schedule around the Bills, and his moods largely depend on them, too.
Luckily, not everything Bills-related in the house was shoved angrily into a garbage bag that Monday night. Two of our cats are named after Bills quarterbacks. And I noticed that a trio of plush snowmen wearing Bills sweaters and hats were turned to face the wall, as if in time-out.
For my part, I wasn’t upset that he tore the bookshelves apart or scared the cats with his slamming of doors or went to sleep as sullenly as if we’d just had a gut-busting argument. Some might call his reaction to a mere game an overreaction.
But if this passion, this deep feeling, is a vice, I’ll take it over alcoholism or infidelity or ego. And come next Sunday, I’m sure we’ll be sitting in front of the television, cuing up DirecTV, perhaps wary, but watching and believing all the same.
Tell us: Are you a football widow?