I grew up in a "football" house. When my mother went into labor with me, she didn't tell my Dad because he was on his way to see the Redskins play the Giants in a playoff game (my Grandaddy had Redskin season tickets for years). Then, when they finally got to the hospital many hours later, he went to the end of the bed and yelled "Hike!" expecting me to come shooting out, no doubt.
In high school, my dad was athletic director at an all-boys high school. After one year as a cheerleader for a competitive school, I became statistician for the varsity football team where my dad worked. (Only girl to ever get a letter from this school, might I add!) I remember my father's pride not only when I was statistician but when I dated the captain of one high school football team, then another. Not to mention the two football players I "dated" in college. (Please reserve judgement of my dating history until you hear the full story! Which you will via future posts. I promise). I know it sounds incredibly old school considering I did pretty well academically but this seemed to matter to him. And therefore, me...
Fast forward to when I meet my husband. I tell him, among other things, that I like football because boys seem to find this cool. I brag about my days on the sidelines and we laugh about my high school boyfriend teaching me to throw and block. Then we get married. It finally becomes apparent to him that beer bloats me, tailgating takes too long, I don't believe in porta-potties and I'd rather read than watch football. You can imagine his disappointment. He recently said, "but you told me you liked football!" Yep, and he told me he played the guitar.
Tonight is the first game of the season and the Steelers are playing. (Did I mention Paul is from Pittsburgh?) So in my effort to be a better wife, I'm drinking a beer and sitting in the same room while he screams at the TV. Baby steps but steps in the right direction, don't you think?