I’m a middle-aged woman who can’t watch violent movies and who shies away from angry words or, really, any kind of confrontation.
But, I absolutely LOVE football. Go figure!
My love affair began in 1985, living in San Francisco, watching Joe Montana and the 49ers.
Of course, I’d watched football before then – didn’t ‘get’ it. What was the fuss all about? I dated a quarterback in high school. He was cute, and my popularity increased because I was seen with the BMOC, but the football games were for hot dogs, dancing to the band, and dishing about the cheerleaders, not watching the game.
In college I went out with a guy who tried to inspire passion through round pretzels. No, really. He wanted me to understand the game of football, so he pulled out a bag of those small round pretzels (do they make those kind anymore?) and made the dorm lobby’s glass-topped table a football field.
“Here’s the quarterback,” he’d try. “Now this guy on defense will try and get away from the offensive line..” (the pretzels would be moved in position) “and hit the quarterback so he can’t throw the ball.”
The guy lost me at “hit.” Any game that involved hitting just wasn’t my cup of tea, or in those days, my mug of beer.
But Montana happened, and then Steve Young, and ‘The Catch,’ and 49er fever throughout the Bay Area. I had an ‘aha’ moment, and I began to love football, and its strategy, and understand the necessity of hits.
Segue to this past weekend, with two exciting football playoff games, a New England friend visiting me, a TV in a sun-filled Bay Area condo, and pure silliness.
MA and I began to root for different teams in the beginning of the afternoon, but by the end of the day, I’d pulled her onto my side. We danced with a field goal, pranced with a touchdown, sang bird tunes with a first down, and groaned like sick seals after a sack.
The man of the house, not a football fan like his darling wife (after all, he never had a pretzel lesson, nor did he understand the appeal of the amazing male physiques, ur, athletes) hid in the other room with the newspaper and a good book. But I did see him hide a smile once or twice.
The moral of my post is this: hits can be good, if used properly in Football.
Roughwighting has been “hit” over 2,100 times! (That means a reader goes directly into my blog and reads my post. WordPress then documents a “hit.”)
I thank all of you who read my wighting words in my blog and enjoy them, who comment when moved, who are touched in some small way from my shared revelations.
Hit me again.
And Go Patriots!
My grandson and his dad prepare for the Superbowl.