He's Still Preoccupied With Number Eighty-Five

So my mother hates Joe Paterno. No, wait, that's harsh. My mother hates Joe Paterno's glasses. I mean she has really strong feelings about those glasses. My dad will casually mention Joe Pa, and my mom will go off. "How can you even listen to him when he's wearing those stupid glasses? They're so stupid! I can't even pay attention to what he's saying because his glasses are so stupid." Sometimes she'll even punch her fist into her palm for emphasis. She becomes visibly agitated when he is interviewed. "He is so ridiculous! What is he trying to prove with those stupid glasses?"

The last time my dad was due for new specs, he casually announced, "I'm hoping they have some nice frames like Joe Paterno's."

"I'll divorce you."

They've been married for fifty-one years and have weathered many a storm, but this, apparently, would have been an unforgiveable offense.

"Why would you even SAY that? Oooooh! He looks so STUPID in those glasses. Why he would wear those stupid glasses I'll never know."

I guess there's no accounting for what we decide to get passionate about.

Lately my husband has been demonstrating a similar preoccupation with Chad Ochocinco, wide receiver for the Cincinnati Bengals. It started out innocently (and logically) enough. "What kind of a douche legally changes his name to his jersey number?" I had no answer for that. It did seem like a sort of - well - douchey thing to do. I imagine many folks asked themselves and perhaps their significant others the same question, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

But that wasn't the end of it. Almost every time Ochocinco is mentioned, Tom will say some variation of, "What an idiot. Ochocinco. What kind of stupid name is that?" or, "So what happens if he goes to another team and number 85 has been retired? What're you gonna do then, OCHOCINCO? Stupid."

I have taken to answering his outbursts with, "His name is almost as stupid as Joe Paterno's glasses."

Comparing Tom to my mother usually buys me - and Ochocinco - a few moments of respite. But just a few. Because sooner or later, Tom will be shaking his head again and saying, "Ochocinco. Idiot." He tries to say it quietly, but I still hear him.

If I ever want him to divorce me, I'll just have to legally change my name to a number. If I want to be divorced and disowned, I can change my name to a number and get myself some big glasses.

Good to know.

Football Friday Night

On Friday night, when Lea asked if she could go to the football game with friends, I was thrilled. My dark daughter has, in the past several months, gotten a haircut that is sassy and cute and decidedly NOT designed to hide her face. She has started to wear colors. She has a nice social group and all of the attached angst and drama associated with a teen social group. And now she wanted to go to a HS football game.

How awesome.

How very normal.

I indulged in memories of attending HS football games when I was in Jr. High. It was warm and happy and wholesome. It smelled like autumn leaves and tasted like hot chocolate. I loved cheering with the cheerleaders and watching the band - knowing that soon I'd be a part of it but for those two short years of seventh and eighth grade I was free to just absorb it all. To be a part of it without any obligations. To be a part of it from the sidelines. To be old enough to be interested but too young to actively participate. It was one of the few 'between' stages that I actually cherished.

I loved football Friday nights.

So when Lea said she wanted to go to the game with a girlfriend who lives basically across the street from the school, I couldn't say yes fast enough. Yes. Absolutely. Go. Blessings be upon you. My only concern was that there would be a traffic cop to help them get across the street, because it's a busy one. I was assured that there would be. I rested easy. She made plans to sleep over at the same girlfriend's house after the game.

How awesome.

How very normal.

When she came home the next morning she told us excitedly about the game. She asked if she could go every week. Yes ma'am, you sure can.

I'm still not able to drive and Tom REALLY hates to shop and is a little bummed that he has to do all of my errands, anyway, so I asked my sister (who assuredly does not share his aversion to shopping) if she'd take Lea shopping for some spirit wear for next weeks game.

Spirit wear has NEVER been something my former child of darkness has ever requested. I was positively giddy at the prospect and started planning sweaters and scarves I could knit for her. We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit, how 'bout you?

How awesome.

How very normal.

My sister's response? I've used the comparison before: 'twas the needle scratching and bumping its way across your favorite album. Screeeeeeeeeeech! You won't be enjoying THIS song anymore...

"You let her go to a football game without parental supervision?"

"Yeah - What? WE went to all the football games without parental supervision." I don't want a kid who runs wild in the streets, but I don't want to be a helicopter mom, either. I'm working hard to find that balance. I felt sure a high school football game was a safe place to give her a little freedom.

"Do you KNOW what goes on under the bleachers at those games?"

"Nooooooo....." I replied, feeling considerably less awesome.

"Well, everything, that's what. It's crazy."

"Everything?"

"Everything"

"Like smoking?"

"Yes."

"Drinking?"

"Yes."

"Drugs?"

"Yes."

"Making out?"

"Yes."

"Wow." I said, feeling pretty defeated, naive, and duped.

"And more."

"There's more?" Now I just felt deprived.

"You name it."

I greeted that with an extended silence. I thought I just HAD named it. All of it. The conclusive list.

Frak.

So now either Tom or I will have to go to each game and work once again to find that balance. A little freedom, but not too much. Watching but not hovering. A presence. Frak, frak, frak. Just when I thought I was getting it right.

How non-awesome.

How very normal.

Football. You Bet.

I grew up deep in Steelers territory. My dad was - is - a Steelers fan, but more importantly perhaps, he was - is - a football fan. Even growing up in the era of the Steel Curtain I could just never catch on. With the advantage of hindsight, I think I've figured out why. As a young girl, trying to share my dad's interest, I would snuggle up next to him on the couch and try my hardest to watch - to learn - to understand this game that he loved. But I could never properly follow the action. He would change the channels back and forth from one game to another, following as many games as were being played. I would feel like I was just on the brink of getting it and he would change the channel.

Monday Night Football would've provided a good opportunity to just sit down and watch one game all the way through, but my sister and I were banished to my parents bedroom during those games. My dad and my Uncle Will would watch the games in uninterrupted-by-little-girls-and-their-silly-questions manliness. We were sent upstairs to watch the much more kid friendly lineup of All in the Family and Maude. Right on, Maude. I don't actually recall why I didn't utilize post-season to watch complete non-channel-changing games. Perhaps we were similarly expelled from man-land. Or maybe by that time in the season I didn't care anymore.

At any rate, it wasn't until I married Tom that I really learned to watch and like then love then become obsessed with football. The keen observer will perhaps notice that I said when I married Tom, not when I met him. Because Tom was not a football fan. A very lovely moment in our pre-marriage relationship occurred one Thanksgiving when he and I had decided not to visit relatives, but rather to enjoy our Thanksgiving feast just with each other. I asked if he wanted to watch the game and he asked if I wanted to watch the game and we hemmed and hawed a little bit until one of us said what we were both thinking: "there's a Beavis and Butthead marathon on MTV..." 'Cause we like stuff that's cool. And we hate stuff that sucks. Eh. Heh heh.

No, Tom was not - is not - a football fan in general, but he has some team loyalties. He loved the Jets, (I came of age under the Steel Curtain in western PA, he came of age in New Jersey during the Joe Namath era...) but he also loved the Eagles. And after the opportunity to watch the first uninterrupted games of my life, so did I. In the early years of our marriage, living in what he called the Atlantic City suburbs and I called the Philly suburbs, I became a ridiculously obsessed Eagles fan. I remember sorting my laundry in those days into whites, darks, greens and pinks. (Lea was a baby at the time. Baby girls receive a lot of pink clothes. Stay with me, here...)

I went from not being able to follow a game at all to being able to follow one on the radio - if I was unfortunate enough to have life get in the way of actually watching a game. Before Lea could speak, we would say, "TOUCHDOWN!" and her little hands would go up in the air.

I finally - for the first time in my life - understood the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I experienced the pulse-racing tension followed by elation or disappointment. I. Got. It.

When we decided to move to Ohio, we hadn't really considered the fact that we wouldn't be able to watch every Eagles game anymore. We moved in January, so it wasn't something we really needed to think about for another 9 months or so. When we DID think about it, we decided we'd better pick a more local team to follow, if we wanted to watch weekly games. Columbus, of course, doesn't have a pro team. We have a college team - you may have heard of them - and this town is ALL about the Buckeyes. Pro loyalties seemed to be split between Cleveland and Cincinnati. And Pittsburgh, but we didn't learn that till later. TV coverage, we soon learned, was also split. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We decided we'd follow Cleveland (while maintaining loyalty to Philadelphia first, of course. If you can't watch the team you love, honey, watch the team you're with. Or something like that.) This decision, for me at least, was based largely on the fact that when I'd been pregnant with Liv - I've mentioned before that it was a high risk pregnancy - Ty Detmer's (QB for the Eagles at the time) wife's pregnancy was being monitored at the same clinic. Ty was moving to Cleveland to play with the Browns. It seemed like fate. Or something. So we tried to follow the Browns, but realized very quickly that our local affiliates were not going to be consistent about airing the games. If there was conflict between a Browns game and a Bengals game, they would show the one who was doing better at the time. It wasn't often the Browns.

It all started getting jumbled up again and I pretty quickly gave up. I just don't care about football anymore.

Post season this year I perked up a little bit - it looked like there was a good possiblility that my father's team - the team I'd tried so hard to love as a girl - would be facing the team who'd taught me to love the game in the Super Bowl. THAT would've been big fun for me. I headed into the final play-off games full of anticipation and excitement.

And then I was reminded of that agony of defeat part.

So, I might not bleed black and gold, but I think I've still got a Terrible Towel stashed around here somewhere. I'll watch the Super Bowl all the way through. And not just for the commercials.