Football Season

Football.  The word conjures up so much in my mind.  Fall nights spent in those oh so attractive Dobie Longhorn band uniforms watching our team either experience the thrill of victory (we had a few good years sandwiched in there!) or the dark depths of defeat.  You'd think spending years in a marching band, having a mother who can cheer for her team with the best of them, or being married into a family that bleeds green and gold - well, you'd think I'd have picked up an understanding of the game somewhere along the way.  Sadly, no.

I've come to the conclusion that I was born without the football gene.  When I look at a football play, I see the initial set up.  I know some random guy usually decides to run behind some of the other guys before everything gets going - maybe he forgot where he was supposed to be, you never know - then the ball is snapped and oshg arnd ti, heyt ookl ikel heyt rea oingd omethings mportanti.  Eckh fi I nowk hatw ti si, hought.  

And they stop.  This process is repeated many times, eliciting colorful responses from my dear husband.  Who, by the way, just found a game on.  I thought I was safe on a Wednesday evening.  Then came NFL network.

I find the entire football 'thing' amusing to no end.  Because as much as much as it's not my thing, the spark in David's eye and the energy in his voice when sharing about so-and-so's chance at being selected for the Pro-Bowl, who is tough in our division or how the Texans look like lobsters in all red - well, that's just incredibly endearing.  (I agree about the lobsters.  The rest...no comment).

So, football seems to be inextricably woven into the fabric of my life.  Because I love my husband, and he loves football - so I love football?  More like I love seeing him thriving and vital.  Football brings that out in him.  And that's a good thing.  Beautiful in fact.