It’s just now safe to talk about it
Super Bowl Sunday, Jan. 27, 2008.
He is the very definition of Armchair Quarterback. He’s armed
with his special homemade chili, three kinds of chips and dip and a
case of Mountain Dew. We’re all grateful that the bathroom is about
15 feet away and stocked with various air fresheners and several
boxes of matches. The couch has an ample indentation; a permanent
indicator of his devotion. For 18 games, The Husband has been
there, cheering them on. His beloved Patriots haven’t let him down
yet and here we are; game 19, winner takes all.
It’s just now safe to talk about it
Super Bowl Sunday, Jan. 27, 2008.
He is the very definition of Armchair Quarterback. He’s armed with his special homemade chili, three kinds of chips and dip and a case of Mountain Dew. We’re all grateful that the bathroom is about 15 feet away and stocked with various air fresheners and several boxes of matches. The couch has an ample indentation; a permanent indicator of his devotion. For 18 games, The Husband has been there, cheering them on. His beloved Patriots haven’t let him down yet and here we are; game 19, winner takes all.
The rest of the family waits with bated breath as the kick off nears. We’ve seen him spike imaginary footballs, score winning touchdowns and admonish bad calls, in what he thinks is in his own head. He is a man of great emotion, where football is concerned. The Husband gets into the game. So much so, that he’s scared the cats out of the room, followed closely by a wife and two kids, and I’m pretty sure the neighbors were startled once or twice.
In seasons past, when they’ve won, everyone won. Daddy is now in a good mood. He’ll take the trash out, mow the lawn and clean the kitchen without even being asked. When they’ve lost, there is no going near him. Don’t even ask him what he score was. A dirty look is all it takes for a pall to fall upon the house. Crickets outside don’t even chirp and the frogs are afraid to croak.
When I am in the room reading or writing while football is on, every five minutes he says,
“Watch this play,” It’s enough to make me want to run, screaming from the room. And worse yet, he has Tivo, so he’ll watch the same play no less than three times. He is also superstitious. If the Pats score while I happen to be sitting with a pillow on my lap, I’m not allowed to remove the pillow or stand up. If I wanted to watch the game, with or without a pillow, I would be watching the game. Don’t tell me to watch the game.
(Column ends abruptly due to …well, you know.)
(March 1, 2008)
We are in recovery mode now, and we can begin to mention the P-word again. Carefully. It’s been a rough few weeks. As you can see, I actually started this column on Super Bowl Sunday, and now since we all know the outcome, you know why I haven’t finished it until now.
Born and raised in Connecticut, Patriot football is as near and dear as anything 49er or Raider to a Bay Areanite. The Husband has little patience for the Bandwagon Jumpers who came out of the woodwork when the Pats won in 2002, 2004 and 2005, but were nowhere to be found before that.
I have to give it to him for his years of loyal service, and not even one blown knee or pulled hammie.
