Yep, 37-3 to the Green Bay Packers [sans the ever-present Brett Fav-ray]. I don’t much care for or about the Bears. I suppose I engage superficially in football, though I’m adamantly against superficial involvement in most other things. My preference in the sports arena is bent hard towards soccer or hockey, but I don’t even profess my love for those choices with much fervor. [I’ll go to my first hockey game in February, split between cheering for both teams in contention.]
Normally, though, when things around this house are the way they should be, even with just a shred of normalcy – I would know of a historical-ish game between these ever-rivaled teams. The Green Bay Packers – of course! But I don’t know a thing if my Dad isn’t at home.
He’s not making piles of dirty, color-same clothes that the dog likes to lay in on Sundays. When he does, the TV’s turned to the Bears in HD and from the porch or my room I would know if “we” scored. Cheers and reflexive jumps up from the couch equal good. Disgust and feigned conversations with the referees usually equal bad. Yelling, of course, is bad.
But – no Dad, no Sunday football for me. It’s not fun to watch without someone who cares, about the pigskin or me. Someone who knows the answers to my questions about the yellow line and the hand signals for penalties. Who laughs as I go on about uniform colors and player names, or arena’s with closing roofs.
One and a half parents makes football more out-of-touch, makes it almost inaccessible to me.