This story first appeared in the October 7, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune…
I probably shouldn’t admit this publicly, especially considering the region of the United States in which I was born, raised and still reside, but I really don’t care for football. Now I’m not talking about the trimmings like game parties, marching bands, and concession stand peanuts. I enjoy all that. I just don’t like the game itself, mainly because the only thing I understand about it is that when the ball crosses the goal line, somebody scores, and then they get to kick the ball for another point. That’s it.
Try striking up a meaningful conversation about a first down or a clipping penalty or a quarterback sack in one of last weekend’s games, and all you’re liable to get from me is a non-committal comment like, “Oh, I must have missed that,” or “Wasn’t that something?” Truth be told, I’m not exactly sure what those things are, and I’m okay with that. Football isn’t my thing. My husband, on the other hand, is devoted to the game.
As I write this, Jimmie, also known as our household SuperFan, is watching the umpteenth college football game of the day, excitedly pounding the arms of his recliner and hurling the occasional victory shout or not-so-nice word in the general direction of the TV. I’m huddled with the Chihuahuas in the bedroom because I figure it’s a good time to get some writing done; they figure it’s to their advantage to hide from the scary man in the den.
Normally a fairly laid-back kind of guy, Jimmie morphs into a different person when watching football. He becomes noisy and animated, and miracle of miracles, he manages to stay awake for a full four quarters at a stretch. There’s something about the combination of a TV, recliner and remote control that usually causes Jimmie to fall asleep – unless, that is, he’s watching an NCIS rerun or a football game.
But I don’t get it. I really don’t. What’s so fascinating about watching a bunch of big guys moving an odd-shaped little ball up and down a field by tackling and making every effort to permanently maim each another? It makes no sense to me. But given the popularity of football, it evidently makes sense to a lot of other folks. And at one time – probably 25 or 30 years ago – that bothered me. I thought I was missing out on something, and I hate missing out on anything if I can help it.
So being the reader I’ve always been, I headed to the bookstore and bought a thin volume entitled “The Girls’ Guide to Football” or something like that. It’s been so long, I don’t remember the title for sure. But I do remember reading the book. I also remember still not understanding the game after I did. My comprehension skills tend to fail me when I’m reading something I truly have no interest in.
I have to admit, though, that even to a football-challenged person like me, the sport has its associated good points. When we’re home, Jimmie is happy to watch it on his own, leaving me free to do things I enjoy, like reading, writing or shopping on the Internet. And whenever we go to a game, I get to sit in the stands people-watching and eating concession stand food, which are two of my favorite pastimes. So all that being said, I guess I really do like football in a sideways sort of fashion.
But unless you want to hear a critique of the drill team’s performance at halftime or a diatribe on the condition of the ladies’ restroom at the stadium, don’t expect any post-game analysis from me. I still don’t get it. And if I don’t understand football at my age, I doubt I ever will.
Somewhere in the Middle 