Since it’s less than six hours to kick-off, and most people are in front of their rented-projection screen tv’s or other game day accoutrement, I figure I should say something about sports. I love it. I love football since my husband loves and breathes football and therefore, my osmosis, I do. There are some women who become “football widows” and chat with the other wives while their men high-five and slap their bellies.
Unlike I began seeing Mike, no one I had ever dated shown an interest in sports. One guy even said, “Oh, if I ever opened up a bar, it would only play classical music.” (And who would ever want to be in such a snotty bar like that? Fraiser Crane?)
But Mike demystifies baseball, basketball and football. He invites questions and answers every one patiently, even when I get the names, teams, or combinations of both wrong. His brain is like a sponge. I poke its wet, soggy layer and out comes, “Mike Ditka and Tom Flores are the only two men to win a Super Bowl both as a player and a coach.”
Sports have played a great part in our relationship. He proposed to me at a Storm game. We bonded over the time I jumped up over a bad call at a Seahawks game and yelled at the Field Judge, “What does ‘FJ’ stand for? Fucking Joke?!?” Mike falls asleep listening to KJR Sports Talk radio and it’s the first thing he listens to in the morning. At one of the KJR AM’s Gros with Gas-a-thons we attended, I got drunk and went up to sports guru John Clayton and said, “My fiance thinks you’re a genius.”
This has all been a way for me to say that today’s our four-year-anniversary and I’ve got to clean. It’s the Super Bowl, after all.