I had all the physical trappings of a football widow star in the making---blonde hair, petite build, blue eyes,baby on the hip. "Mom, I liked it when your hair was long and blonde" "Ava, you weren't even born yet."
Stone cold sober on a Wednesday night, the opening game of the 2012 NFL season, the background roar of the tv, the focused gazes of the players hand across their chests as the anthem rings out, swelling feelings of god and country (wait. what are we fighting for? oh that's right, millions of dollars and lots of photos. we are brave. we are men. faith, family, then football.) the shimmery tights across the muscled up thighs, the incessant twinkling flashes of lights across the crowd, all this and more...has the effect of a firework on a soldier. Hit the deck, run for cover, movE!!...MOVE!!!...MOOOVVVE!!!
Memories rushing into the forehead like Walter Payton.
A whispered (not shouted. my sons are obsessed with football. the game is on for them.) proclamation to my aunt "the only way I could watch a football game now is if I was on the couch with my beloved, gazing intently into his eyes, and drinking heavily."
My former husband---I am currently ddeeeeeevorrrrrrced (to be said with a low gutteral dipping tone, a clucking of the neck, a wrinkling of the brow, to further emphasize the ugliness of the word. as opposed to "maaarrried" to be spoken in a soft almost falsetto tone, chin up, eyes bright, neck extended toward the heavens, reaching for the divine masterful planner)----was a highschool football coach, in TEXAS (...yep. that's right. texas where "football is king!")
I was, I've been told, the worst coach's wife on the planet. I concur. One month into my new football widow status (a status i maintained for six years straight), age 22, a stay at home mom with an infant aged 4 months, I received a call from a sweet excited stranger, "Hey! We heard you're super creative...(My eyes light up and my minds starts racing to large colorful paints and posters and murals...)...We need some help, (help? I can help. I'd love to help!) ... we need 75 cowbells painted with football players numbers...(smile drops to frown twists to scowl morphs to foul attitude...total and complete and severe and absolute disappointment, followed by disgust.). I respond "Oh. I see. Well, thank you for considering me. But I don't think that's a project I'd like to take on right now." And with that, a newcomer to the scene, I committed football widow suicide.
I was, I've been told, the worst coach's wife on the planet. I concur. One month into my new football widow status (a status i maintained for six years straight), age 22, a stay at home mom with an infant aged 4 months, I received a call from a sweet excited stranger, "Hey! We heard you're super creative...(My eyes light up and my minds starts racing to large colorful paints and posters and murals...)...We need some help, (help? I can help. I'd love to help!) ... we need 75 cowbells painted with football players numbers...(smile drops to frown twists to scowl morphs to foul attitude...total and complete and severe and absolute disappointment, followed by disgust.). I respond "Oh. I see. Well, thank you for considering me. But I don't think that's a project I'd like to take on right now." And with that, a newcomer to the scene, I committed football widow suicide.
Reincarnated now as an educated, independent, book loving woman who is also a mother, I can only laugh (probably cry too) that the stench of football will color our walls, occupy our fridays, (wednesdays, thursdays, saturdays and sundays, too. oh! and mondays.), and flood our dinner conversations, for many years to come. Bless their little hearts.
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