My husband lucked out. It's true. Oh sure, there are better wives than me. There are wives who know how to cook boeuf bourguignon. Some wives probably wake up with breath smelling of Listerine and nary a hair out of place. But few wives know their football like I do.
Not many wives know how to pronounce Houshmandzadeh, let alone know that his name is TJ and that he now plays for the Seattle Seahawks. Many wives might not know what usually happens on a fourth down. Many wives might not be able to correctly define a chop block or what a wildcat offense is.
But I can.
I am a football fan. National football league, not college. I can watch college ball but that isn't where it's at for me. For me it's Sunday afternoon, in between play rehearsal and Community Life Group. It's a fire crackling --although mine is currently broken and someone is coming to fix it next Thursday--and it's a warm blanket wrapped around me. It's cheering and jumping and silent fist pumping. The latter of which I learned how to do when my two month old baby was sleeping in my arms three years ago. It's chili and nachos and TV trays. I can't put my finger on why, exactly, huge men pounding on each other is so fantastic to me.
Maybe it's because football, for me, has always been family. Family gathered around the television. Family snuggled together on the couch. Family tossing the ball around in the backyard during halftime. And over the years I've picked a few things up. I've learned how to pronounce Houshmandzadeh. I know who plays quarterback for most teams. I have a fierce rivalry with the Broncos fans at my church. Although, secretly, I'd choose the Broncos over the Chiefs or the Raiders any day. Especially now that they don't have Cocky Cutler as their QB anymore. My heart belongs to my Chargers.
I love football. I'm a good wife.
(And my husband preached on ego this morning. Hmmmm....)