I wrote this essay last year, thought you might find it interesting, cause women are tired of cleaning and cooking during football games. Years ago I held some great football parties. But I didn't understand the game and, therefore, didn't watch it. I, finally, just got tired of the guys sitting and staring at the TV and the women doing the cooking. I learned to cook big pots of red beans and rice early in the day and let everyone serve themselves. I began staring at the TV too. At first, I would just day dream, or plan the upcoming week's menu in my mind. At the start of each season, my husband would explain the difference between offense and defense. When the quarterback threw a fake pass, it worked, I could never find the ball or who had it. With instant replay, I would jump up and cheer, thinking they had just made a second touchdown. At that time my comments mostly had to do with the player's hairstyles, tattoos, or their cute little behinds. I love New Orleans, so I decided to love its team, The Saints. It was like watching a house full of teenage boys, year in and year out. They couldn't do much right, they messed up every task given to them, they were embarrassing. The paper bags of shame did terrible things to my hair styles. I hung in there, and slowly I began to know the different teams, their quarterbacks, and learned why those men were always dropping little flags and blowing whistles when someone broke a rule. I shocked myself, one Monday morning, I asked a coworker,"Did you see that play in the third quarter? I could tell that pass was thrown too late." I had passed into the twilight land that women enter when they get involved in man sports. I took to reading the sports news each morning. Of course, in the South most women do know more about football than those New York women. College days watching SEC football will do that to you. I became totally obsessed with Saints football. It was a lonely life, no one at work wanted to spend the day talking about the game, my girlfriends quit inviting me to lunch, and my ninty-year-old mother just nodded off for a nap. My husband, a casual sports fan at best, just sat with the newspaper and would say, "Yea, good game," or just, "un-huh." Only my four and five year old grandsons would take a few minutes each week to let me talk about plays and scores. Then they would wander off to play. I took to striking up conversations with strange men in football jerseys at the local quick shops. I scheduled my housework and cooking around games and prayed that no one would invite us to some party, wedding, or funeral. But this is football country and everyone knows the unwritten rules of social life during football season. At half time, phone calls were answered, if the person called to discuss the game. I wore simple black clothes and fleur-de-lis jewelry on Sunday afternoons. I bought a Saints tee-shirt when we headed for the Super Bowl. I wore it every day, hoping to bring the team good luck. None of us liked playing against quarterbacks Farve or Manning. They were considered family, being Southern boys. But their teams stood between my team and the Super Bowl Championship. The Saints were just taking care of business. Super Bowl Sunday was a blur. After waiting for days, it passed too fast. My nervous system was a mess. I wanted to watch the game and pack each play into my brain to drag out and replay again and again. I sat for the next couple of days, watching all the sports shows and chasing down game stories on my computer. Ha, now everyone wanted to talk football. My husband hates crowds, big parades, heavy traffic, and as stated, has only a casual interest in sports. He drove me to New Orleans for the Saints parade. He even wore the Saints shirt I bought him. It must have been living hell for him. He stood in cold windy weather, tripping over piles of beer bottles and beads, and mumbled, "WHO DAT" when Drew Brees threw beads in our direction. He allowed complete strangers to hug and high- five him. It took almost 4 hours in heavy traffic to get us out of town later. He invented a new word that night to describe his feelings. I can't repeat it. When the Saints win the Super Bowl next year, he says he won't be going to the parade. I won't bore you with talk about the Katrina-New Orleans-Saints connection. We all know the story. But that parade............you just had to be there. It was a gumbo mix of all the things that are good about our people and their ability to find joy. And may I be struck dead, if I'm lyin', but I saw a man in a wheelchair stand right up when Coach Payton and that big trophy rolled down Canal Street. It is going to be hard to get back to the everyday life until next August when football practice starts again. My weekends are now free, so I would be happy to come to your next party. So, please, call me.

report 0 likes, 0 dislikes   like  dislike