Football season is on the horizon. Already I am hearing about the draft, the pre-season games, and Michael Vick’s reinstatement to the NFL (please don’t get me started). ESPN is showing up on my television and Zack is throwing around words like “football pool” and “OMG, Brett Favre”.
<Insert deep, tragic sigh>
Zack is a football fan. No, not a fan. A Fan. A VIKINGS FAN, to be exact. Living in Chicago, we do not get all the Vikings games on our local stations and I refuse (refuse!) to pay for those crazy cable sports packages, so we end up spending many a Sunday at sports bars during football season. We (and by we I mean Zack) try desperately to arrive early enough to claim one of the larger televisions (I could not care less which TV the damn game shows up on). And then we set up camp. All day. I often bring a book. I also do a lot of glaring over the top of my book in Zack’s general direction. My glares seem not to bother him, as he insists I tag along whenever his Vikings cohorts in Chicago are unavailable.
Okay, it’s not like I haven’t TRIED to like football. The first football season that Zack and I lived through together (in Charlottesville, where neither of us knew a soul so I felt obligated to keep him company despite my ever-expanding disinterest in the sport) I dredged up the proper level of enthusiasm and tried to learn all the rules. Even now, I tend to tune in occasionally if the game is particularly exciting. But you know what I just can’t stand about football? The stopping and starting. Every time I start getting into the game, something happens and everything comes to a screeching halt. When halftime finally rolls around, I want the game to be over. I am done.
I guess the one good thing about football is it’s an excuse to sit around on Sundays drinking beer in my overlarge and quite comfy Vikings sweatshirt. No complaints about that.