FOOTBALL WATCHING AND ME

Or Run Away From Home

It was a dreary windy day, and I had had it! I decided to show them; I’d just run away from home. It was a lousy day. Mom was busy sewing, and Dad was monopolizing the TV. Every weekend it was football, football, football. I was sick of it.

I grabbed a jacket and started down the street. I’d only walked to the intersection before I was wishing I’d brought a scarf, a hat, and gloves. But nothing could make me go back. Let’s see how long it takes for them to miss me.

In the past, when I would threaten to run away, my mom would always offer to help me pack. I sure wasn’t going to ask for her assistance. I’d go it alone.

By the end of the second block, I realized this winter day was coming to an early close and would turn dark in a hurry. If I was in the habit of carrying a purse, I might have had some money, but no, my pockets were empty. My stomach started to feel empty, too. In another block, I noticed a couple of porch lights coming on and I was nearing the police station.

Would the cops come out and take me home? They all knew my dad, a small-town banker. Or would they throw me in jail for being a runaway? I turned around and ran as fast as my legs would carry me, all the way home. When I slammed through the front door, my cheeks were red, my hands freezing, and I was gasping for breath. Did anyone notice? Of course not.

I was probably nine years old when that happened. If I ran away every time my husband monopolized the TV with football games, I’d be considered homeless. A few years ago, I decided to become a football fan. At first, I just admired the color combinations of the uniforms, the muscular physiques, and the designs on the helmets. Hey, you’ve got to start somewhere.

Every time I think I understand the rules, they add more or change the ones they have. Even the fans in the stands play a part. They try to make so much noise the quarterback can’t hear the play calls. That, or they strip down to the waist, paint their faces, and act like complete idiots. I have yet to understand why anyone would pay to sit in the stands when I have a bird’s eye view of every play from every angle in slow motion.

My husband watches football like he’s in a hypnotic trance. He doesn’t move or say a word. There is no emotion, and from time to time, he drifts off for a little nap. But if I touch the volume or the remote, he wakes immediately and is most offended that I would dream of changing the channel. After 52 years of marriage, he’s pretty sure I’m not going to run away from home.

At first, I didn’t know which team to root for. I decided the guys who hike the ball have the best chance to win. Then I realized the other team gets a turn, too.

When my team gets the ball, I squeal and yell and jump up and down. Barry never moves or says a word. My dad used to yell and cuss out the refs as if they could hear him. Barry never moves or says a word. He doesn’t drink, eat, or take calls unless it’s half-time.

His favorite team is his alma mater, the University of Arizona. We watched a game against their arch-rivals, the Sun Devils. It was back and forth. I rooted for Barry’s team. First U. of A. was in the lead and then the Devils. Turnover after turnover. I was in a sweat . . . yelling, clapping, spilling chips here and there. Barry . . . not a move . . . he’s frozen.

The game ended in a tie. Barry never moved. In overtime, it was five minutes of gut-wrenching suspense. I was hysterical. U. of A. finally won, and I fell back, exhausted on the sofa. Barry stood up, ran his hand over his head, and said, “That was the most exciting game I ever watched.”

Months later, it was U. of A. in the basketball finals. I don’t even remember the opponents. The game ended in a tie. Overtime ended in a tie. It was a crazy game. I ran to the bathroom and came sliding back to my seat in time for the second overtime.

Every player was soaked in sweat and so was I. Every time our team scored; I jumped out of my seat. Dinner was burning up in the oven, the cat wanted out of the house of terror, and the phone was ringing. Barry . . . didn’t move. It was as if he was paralyzed.

Another tie and we went to the third overtime. By then, the smoke alarm was going off, and someone was outside the gate honking for attention. Barry sat silently.

The play was wild and in the last second U of A scored the winning point.

I screamed with delight and danced wildly around the room. As I cavorted past Barry’s chair, I swooped by and patted him on the head.

Barry . . . not a move. My hand came away soaking wet. My rock, my stone-faced steadfast sports fan husband was drenched in sweat.

Inside himself, he had run up and down the court and shot every basket. He’s a wild man . . . inside.

If he’s gone from home, he records his favorite team. On his way home, he will find the final score on the radio. When he gets home he turns on the TV to watch the game???? I don’t get it. He already knows the final score.

“Why watch the game when you already know who won?” I ask.

“We won . . . now I can watch it, and I don’t have to sweat it.”