This blog contains a story and it’s a mostly true story too! I can’t say that it is 100% true, because my memory of past events is furry. No, the word furry isn’t a typo. You see, my memories always includes dog hair, hence I use the word furry, and also the word hence, because I have always wanted to use it. But this story is about why Super bowl Sunday means so much to me, and why I consider this game my ultimate football fantasy.
In 1998, (I think) my husband was unable to attend his fantasy football league draft. He was having a man-crisis, which is a lot like a man-cold. For those of you who don’t understand why this is a big deal, not being able to attend your fantasy league draft, and how it could be considered anything like a crisis, just know that for some dudes, (many of them active participants in fantasy sports leagues) this is a crisis situation that ranks right up there with having a chronic pre-mature ejaculation problem.
My guy was panicked. There was no way he could finagle it and so he asked me to go to the draft for him. ME? The me who has the attention span of a gnat and picks favorite teams based on the color of their jerseys and whether I can make up songs that rhyme with their mascot and who has the most hump worthy QB. Yeah that’s me to a T, and although you might think he could have somehow managed to get someone, ANYONE, to stand in for him, you would be thinking wrong. What was he thinking?
A few days before the draft, he went over his picks with me, talking about alternates and creating a spreadsheet (yes, an actual Excel spreadsheet) and a detailed flow chart of how to pick his fantasy team. “Ooooo like a basketball tournament, right?” I asked him. “No, not like March Madness, Nicole,” he replied, exasperated. Gawd, so testy! So I stopped joking and I listened as well as I could, and nodded a lot, but I just kept thinking about stuff like….well, I just thought of other stuff that I like to think about, but like I said, it was 1998 and I can’t remember. I was probably thinking about puppies or work or Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. Or Slurpees. We lived right behind a 7-11 at the time. It was very distracting.
On the day of the draft, I showed up with my beverage, (it was BYOB) and a snack to share. I knew all the dweeby guys in my husband’s league, so it wasn’t uncomfortable for me in the sense that I had to do this thing that I had no idea how to do and no interest in doing with strangers, but I still felt squirmy and I didn’t understand why Clark from Tech Support was wearing tube socks with his shorts.
Why Clark? WHY?
Cliff notes version of the evening – FUBAR. Nikki fucked it up beyond all recognition. I just couldn’t keep up with the lightening fast pace and the sports banter. I might have also been a wee buzzed, but like I said – 1998 people. It was a long time ago.
My husband was not mad, which surprised me, because I thought he was going to be really ticked. He was disappointed, but not mad. I had done my best, hadn’t I? YES, I had, I assured him of this because really, I had! I felt terrible though, because after three previous seasons of winning big in his fantasy league, my fantasy football fanatic spouse lost BIG. It was an expensive league too. To quote my husband, “I’d just as well have wiped my ass with the cash I dropped this year on that league.”
But it was a turning point in our relationship. He didn’t realize HOW bad it would be, even though he knew there was a chance I’d screw up some of his picks despite his carefully crafted instructions. The problem was, well, not THE problem, but one of the problems with this clusterfuck of a situation was that he didn’t know that not only did I not know a thing about the game of football, but I also didn’t know Bam Morris from Bam Bam Rubble. Silly man assumed that because I knew the words to “The Super bowl Shuffle,” and enjoyed listening to Jim Short’s pigskin picks, I must know a little something about the game.
And nope, I didn’t know jack squat! Not really. Aside from knowing that a touchdown is not the same thing as a hat-trick and that Walter Payton was on the Wheaties box (because he was really good at football and like, THE most popular and beloved Chicago Bears player since…um….the Chicago Bears player who was really popular and beloved before him, whoever that was. Mmm…Sweetness!).
“What happened?” he asked. He just didn’t understand how it could have gone so wrong. So I told him that it went wrong because I had no idea what the fuck was going on.
“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t know what the hell you were doing?” he asked, laughing at his nightmare, I mean FANTASY roster.
“You didn’t ask,” I replied.
And that is the truth. He didn’t.
He was so busy in his fantasy world of foot-ballers; the guy didn’t think to get my input at all. I didn’t offer it either, but in my defense, I had no idea that a fantasy football draft was so cutthroat. Ladies, you just do NOT want to know what happens when a bunch of not for profit accountants and Liberal Arts college professors don’t get any of their top three running back picks. Think about Bruce Banner when he gets angry. HULK SMASH! Don’t even get me talking about what happens when their fantasy team members get injured, or GOD FORBID that injury is a season ender. It’s worse than when your guy gets a man-cold. Way worse.
But like I said, somewhere in this mostly true story, it was a turning point for my husband and I with regard to how we interacted about all things sports related. He stopped assuming I gave a shit about sports at all and no longer talked to me about the details of the game aside from where he was going to be watching it and with who and what time he’d be home if he wasn’t going to be on our sofa drinking beers and screaming at the television.
YAY! And you know football season is long and there are a lot of games, so I had lots of time to do my own thing-a-lang. More YAY! Uninterrupted reading…chick flicks…long baths…out for drinks with the ladies!
The only time he included me in any sporting related activity or conversation was in the weeks leading up to Super bowl Sunday, because I was always invited to the parties.
Ah yes, the yearly Super bowl bash was something I did look forward to with great enthusiasm. We sure have had some good times at these parties and when I say WE, I mean ME, and when I say GOOD TIMES I mean an abundance of good food, and the majority of this food included various types of melted cheese. AND OH MY GOD THE BOOZE WAS (and still is) ALWAYS A FLOWIN’!
So that is my story.
It is mostly true, this story, and the most true part of this story about why Super bowl Sunday means so much to me, is because it’s the one day of the year where I can get food stoned on no less than 10 different appetizers, all of which contain copious amounts of melted cheese, AND the there is a variety of free flowing alcohol for everybody for hours on end. The halftime show is a nice bonus too. Wardrobe malfunction? Yes please! And I don’t give a shit who wins almost ever, because unless it’s the Chicago Bears (and let’s face it that has happened what, ONCE since 1986).
You can see why Super bowl Sunday is MY fantasy football come true now, can’t you?