The Second Half

Football was a part of our everyday life at home growing up. In the 70’s and into the 80’s my brothers and I tossed around a neon green nerf in our tiny kitchen while mom cooked dinner. It had big chunks missing after our Bassett Hound had gotten a hold of it. It messed up the spiral so we adjusted the game.

Sundays were a celebration especially when an ‘in-house’ rivalry occurred. Mom was a Giants fan. Bob, the Raiders. John was a diehard Viking. And I, already knowing I would love the west coast, chose the ‘49ers. Preparing for those games was an extravaganza with full regalia in team colors, face painting, foam fingers and whatever else was needed to intimidate our siblings. We assumed our positions, strewn about on the gold shag carpet in the family room and riveted to the tiny TV with the antenna and, later, that massive cable box. And, trust me, there was no shortage of grotesque, unsportsmanlike celebration when our respective teams scored or, better yet, won. Bragging rights for the week ensued.

And then there was Monday. Oh, Howard, how I loved your blazer and your cadence (although the alliteration got to me from time to time). Even on nights when my homework was heavy, I would sit at the kitchen table so I could do my work and hear the game at the same time. As he once asked, “After all, is football a game or a religion?”

I also remember a strange board game called “Monday Night Football” by Mattel where you inserted small discs into a reader and it would call the plays. It seemed very high tech at the time. And, if that wasn’t enough excitement, we would ‘wisely’ concoct some variation of the sport in the basement on the concrete. Down in “The Dungeon” arms were broken (both of mine at the same time), teeth were lost, and the epic stories are still circulating at holiday tables through the years.

On summer nights after the sun had set and to the sound of crickets, we tossed the junior-sized Wilson football back and forth until someone took an incoming pass to the forehead because we couldn’t see the ball any longer and were trying to judge the catch based on how the ball sounded coming in.

In junior high I played tackle with the boys at Martha Brown school in the snow. I didn’t go easy on any of them; pitch, draw, end-around. Even in winter boots I could run and dive like a mother**cker. It wasn’t cool at that age to wear snow pants so I just doubled up my jeans and hoped for the best. There were several days I ended up with frostbite. It was worth it ~ the game was competitive and the boys were cute.

While I was in high school, I helped my younger brother paint gold and white stripes across the deep purple walls in his bedroom. And, during my senior year, I also considered going out for the varsity football team as the kicker. I would have made quite a successful go of that after my soccer career. But since I loved music just as much, I auditioned for the musical instead. Sadly, it was not about sports.

I took a break from the NFL after the Ray Rice incident in 2014. Clearly, this was not because I don’t love or understand the game. Rather, I didn’t respect the lack of consideration the NFL as an influential organization gave those victimized at the hands of their players. The league has since instituted new policies which, in my not-so-humble opinion, could stand to be stricter. But, last year, I decided to give the NFL another look with the hope that I could adopt our local hometown team, the Buffalo Bills, as my adult favorite. 

Regretfully, someone cast a shadow on that football re-entry experience for me. I was told I was “not a football person” and that I “don’t understand the sport” with the occasional suggestion that I shouldn’t bother coming out for the games at all. There’s a football penalty that describes this type of behavior. My mistake was not throwing the flag with intention a hell of a lot sooner!

But I’m more of a ‘lace up my cleats and keep playing’ kind of gal than ‘fix my tiara’. After all, I was throwing the Hail Mary pass from the far end of the yard for the friend launching himself off the roof of the shed and into the pool - while many others were playing with Barbie in her townhouse. So, don’t count me out.

I am a football person.

I do understand the game…

…and I LIKE it.

I finally connected with a lifelong friend and Bills fan to actually allow me to have fun with both the game and with the team without an ounce of criticism. She and I are running a bootleg play. Pretty soon I’ll be inside the 20 and headed for the end zone. You can expect grotesque, unsportsmanlike celebration when I finally arrive just like my brothers taught me. If there are more Bills fans of this kind out there who just want to enjoy the game with me, let me know! I still want to love your team.

Bills Mafia? Possibly. Then again, maybe not. I’m still deciding. The Seahawks are also calling to me from the Pacific Northwest.

The beauty in all of this is that I’m reminiscing about the sport, smiling again, tossing the ball around with the guys, revisiting something that I have loved and enjoyed since 1970-something while, at the very same time, reclaiming my life and my hometown.  

I’m definitely enjoying the second half.