No, I’m not talking about hunting, or even referring to school days. The time of year I mean is professional football time. That’s right, folks, those millionaire goal-post runners are at it again and that means life at our house becomes much more complicated. I have to somehow figure out how to live with the constant din of football games in my ears for at least three days a week and Roy has to figure out why, when he’s shouting excellent advice at them, the Vikings don’t do a better job for him.
It’s not that I am unfamiliar with the Vikings…my father is also a die-hard Vikings fan; but I found out what real Viking-mania was all about when I got married. Sundays at our house are a screaming good time with the Vikings at the center of the maelstrom.
No one is safe. The dog is personally terrified when the screaming, yelling, jumping out of the chair and agitated pacing begins each week. She has become so traumatized that I think all I’d have to do is show her the color purple and she would immediately slink downstairs with her tale between her legs.
If only the Vikings would cooperate, but they have this terrible tendency to do what they think is right, which many times clashes with Roy wants them to do.
“No, no! Don’t run the ball through that line,” he will scream, holding his head and moaning. “You need to pass, can’t you just pass the ball, for pete’s sake?”
I have learned to make myself scarce during these traumatic Sunday events. There’s always laundry to do or cleaning in some other room to take care of. Unfortunately, I’m all he’s got to vent his game day hysteria on.
“Jackie, you’ve got to see this! You won’t believe it! They’re gonna show it on replay; hurry up or you’ll miss it!”
So, I run in from wherever I was hiding and watch a football play involving some men with a football, running down a field and eventually—falling down.
“Do you believe that?” he will exclaim in the voice of a man whose frustration is vindicated.
There is only one response in these situations. I put a properly sorrowful expression on my face and shake my head slowly and deliberately to indicate my inability to comprehend such a stupid play. That’s if he looks and sounds angry or disgusted.
Now, if he sounds happy and excited (not usually), then I clap my hands and say, “Wonderful!” in the same voice I would use if my grandson voluntarily used the potty.
The Vikings won on this particular Sunday, so all is sweetness and light at our house. The dog is upstairs, happily hanging out with Roy and I am able to read a book in relative peace, except for the times I must listen to another rave about something the Vikings did right, but “could have done better.” I wear my practiced, “oh that’s serious and you are so right,” expression for this conversation and all is good.
Vikings, if you could manage to get Roy a contact into your games, so he could call the plays and you would do them right, I would be very grateful. I’m not alone in this request, either. I had a friend at work the other day say, “It’s pretty loud and obnoxious at my house when the Vikings are on. It’s really kind of embarrassing when the windows are open.”
I replied tiredly, “I feel your pain. Just shut the windows and keep reminding yourself that you are not alone. Also, touchdowns are good things!”