A Long Blog...Just Because

I'm not entirely certain where my original resentment or lack of caring for football began, but I think that I might have a good idea. In school, I was in band. I know, I know. You're probably shocked right now. Jessica?? In band?? But...but...she's so cool. How can that be?? Well, it's true. I played trumpet faithfully and fairly good from 5th grade until I graduated high school. Heck, I'll even go so far as to admit that I enjoyed it. Alot. I thought, like everyone else who can play an instrument, that I was pretty cool. Sure, sure. It's not an electric guitar, but hello? Haven't you ever heard of Dizzy Gillespie? Shoot, I'm probably not helping my 'cool' case right now.

So back to band and football. I grew to despise football in high school. School team pride, I didn't really have. I mean, I clapped when it was expected of me, but I didn't really mean it. I vividly remember band during football season. Who wouldn't remember being drug to the bitter cold metal stands and forced to blow air into an icy metal instrument whenever the band instructor so deemed necessary. (which was often of course.) But really it was the half time show that made me hold that ire that stuck with me so well. Hours of practice and marching, marching, marching in attempt to put on this awesome show where you not only march in complex formations but also do so while playing songs that you either memorize or read off of miniscule paper six inches in front of your face. You finish the show that you think is, well, pretty dang impressive and wait for the applause only to discover that about three people in the stands actually care enough to bring their hands together to clap four times. Pity claps. Ugh.

So this is about the time the crowd starts going bananas and you think, "Oh! Delayed applause! Yay for band!" No, no, no. The cheerleaders come on the field. Naturally. Suddenly the claps make sense and you roll your eyes and sneer at them beneath your hideous, feathered hat. So begins that epic battle between the cheerleaders and the band. While secretly, you wonder if the band wore too-short skirts and donned pom-poms if it would change anything. Of course, I never understood it, myself. Don't they say that a person in uniform is hot? Not like, 'Wow...I'm sweating like a pig in this thing' hot. But rather, 'Holy cow...would you look at them rockin' those uniforms,' kind of hot. Before I actually wore the uniform (pre high school), I thought that people watched the band go by and talk about how neat and snazzy they looked all geared up for the performance. Turns out that once you put the uniform on you realize that those whispers you heard weren't compliments but people attempting to hush their pity and laughter. Suddenly, you realize that the 150 year old hand-me-down uniforms weren't supposed to be yellow and orange but rather red and white. You begin to notice an obvious odor that permeates your very skin. You realize that it must be the embalming fluid they used to continue to preserve the uniforms for the next unlucky people dumb enough to think they were cool.* Of course, we got new uniforms two years before I graduated, but still. But no matter how hard we worked to impress the public, it was all about the football players and those blasted cheerleaders. It was all, "Yay football players! Yay cheerleaders!" and "Booo band!" *sigh*So band led me to despise football. I promised myself secretly that I would never support that blasted sport, despite the practical religious status it holds in America.

So here I am. Married. Kids. Two out of four people in the house loves football in a creepy obsession kind of way. Over the last year, I've started to pick up some clues, but still didn't really ever plan on watching any games. I remained true to my own self-established rule that I MUST NOT LIKE FOOTBALL. So I say this next part with a sheepish grin on my face. My son has asked me time and time again what team is my favorite. I never really have had an answer. A few weeks ago I realized that I really liked Drew Brees and Tim Tebow. The more I learned about them and watched them, I...I...enjoyed it. What?!? How did that happen? So I told Alex that I picked my team. I like the Saints...and the Broncos. (No judging, now.) Somehow...something began to slowly happen that I still won't admit to my husband. I've been watching games out of the corner of my eye from time to time. Slowly beginning to understand things they say instead of hearing naught but a bunch of mumbo-jumbo going in one ear and out the other. Honestly I didn't realize I was doing this until tonight. I was watching the Saints game. I mean really watching it. Suddenly Darren Sproles is runnining to make a touchdown and I found myself moving off of the couch in excitement. I physically floated out of my body as this was happening and watched as my butt physically left the couch, though ever so slightly, in actual excitement upon the touchdown. Naturally, I smacked myself in the head and stopped my moment of unnatural joy in mid jump and tried to pretend it never happened. I felt a sharp jab of betrayal to my self and my seemingly undying devotion to hating football.

So here I sit...admitting something that I fought for so long. I...*gulp*...enjoy football. I don't know how it happened! I blame my five-year old son and his adorable enthusiasm for the sport. Of course, I'm fairly certain that no one that would openly mock me for my sudden interest in this sport actually reads this blog so I feel safe admitting it in writing. I still don't plan on telling my husband because I've made fun of him for his love of football for so long. He'd never let me hear the end of it. Will I one day be one of those people sporting my Tim Tebow and Drew Brees jerseys on game days? Who knows. Until then...it's our little secret, okay?


*The band uniforms weren't actually 150 years old and I don't believe they used embalming fluid. But you never know...