We chowed down on some gloppy messy nachos for lunch. Perfectly outfitted with the works! Vegetarian chili, green onions, olives, jalapenos, two kinds of cheese, oh my! Red and green salsa to boot. The kids had limeade, while Mac Daddy and I had our favorite weekend afternoon beverage. I’m happy to be wearing a forgiving waistband.
We’re spending this afternoon watching the Wisconsin-Michigan game. Nevermind that Wrigley Field is decked out in purple for my alma mater; we’re not watching that game. I suppose that’s because I don’t really get football. I used to love going to the games back in the day. Tailgating at Camp Randall was a blast, and cheering in a sea of (insert school colors here) was electrifying. There is a certain camaraderie among sports fans. A hopeful nod. A confident fist bump. A maybe-next-time-Tiger double pat on the back. I envy those who are absorbed in sports and have something to contribute to Monday’s water cooler talk.
But the thing is, I don’t much care for sports. For starters, I have zero athletic prowess and never played a sport growing up. I’m painfully uncoordinated and bore easily. I like tennis because the outfits are cute, but that alone doesn’t make me a tennis player. I used to golf pretty regularly but now grapple with the time, expense, and effect on the environment of that sport. My clubs, custom cut to fit my 5’0 frame, sit gathering dust in the basement. I’m not even one of those people who loves to watch sports even if I don’t play them. Unless my sons are on the field, I don’t watch sports. You’ll usually find me curled up on the most comfortable chair in our house with a trashy magazine or a book. This particular chair doesn’t even face the TV so I’m not even tempted to peek up when I hear Mac Daddy yell.
Mac Daddy and Bird have been yelling at the TV, cheering on the Badgers. Every time someone scores a touchdown Deal yells in his spot on TV announcer voice, “Touchdown Ronde Barber!” Bird knows the nuances of various plays and reenacts them when he feels moved to do so, never mind the cups that get toppled off the coffee table and spilled along the way. Deal jumps on him, as if simply pretending to play football is an excuse to tackle his brother. My sons end up in a twisted pile that’s more reminiscent of wrestling than football. Somehow everything they do turns into wrestling. Now talk about a sport with baaaaadd uniforms!
So here I sit with my laptop on college football Saturday. I hear during the commercials that my undergrad alma mater is winning. I don’t even know whom they’re playing. No word on the Wildcats. Mac Daddy has asked us all to stop asking so many questions now. He’s stressed and trying his damndest not to cuss.
I think he could use a beer.