My face fell as I heard the painfully familiar noises of a sports game drifting from the living room. I put the Halo Top that I had been shoveling into my face back on the counter and raced into the room.
“What’s going on?” I squeaked, a hint of panic in my voice.
I glanced from the television screen, where men in tight pants and colored jerseys sprinted against each other on too-vibrantly-green turf, to the 20-something guy sitting on the couch. I had made the fatal mistake of going to the kitchen to get a snack before starting the agreed upon movie. In the short, three minutes that I was up, the channels were searched. A game was found. And the happiness I had felt for the past six months evaporated.
The clocked ticked down. The ball got turned over (I don’t actually know what happened with the ball. Someone picked it up? Someone threw it down? Whatever, something happened). A whistle was blown in some far off land, and my boyfriend looked over at me. His eyes lit up in a way the world hasn’t seen since he got his first blow job. The smile that slowly spread across his face was one that I had never seen — full of pure joy. Pure love. Then, he did something so vulgar, so horrifying, so shockingly rude, that I literally took a step back and placed a hand over my heart in anguish.
He stood up, threw his arms out wide, and shouted, “Football is back!”
Fuck. Football is back.
Half a year ago, most of us could have been found at some apartment or bar, pretending calories didn’t exist as we ate wings and nachos, chased the carbs with vodka or beer, and cheered for whichever team everyone else was cheering for. We acted like we cared about the big comeback at the end of the game and we made it our mission to black out before the third quarter. It was fun, sure. But that was only because of the junk food and free alcohol some poor boy was pumping into us. Once the game ended, the confetti fell, and the lights came up, we let out a sigh of relief.
It was over. It was *finally* over.
Our Sundays could now be spent dragging the same guy around to farmers markets, going to museums we didn’t actually care about just so we could get some cute Instagram pictures, and making him go to brunch with our annoying friends. After five months of him being off the hook with excuses like, “my team is playing,” or “football was what my dad and I used to watch together before he died. It makes me feel like he’s still here with me,” he’s finally back where he belongs each and every Sunday — next to his girlfriend, looking miserable, and taking a million pictures of her in front of a purple wall.
It was heaven, and for awhile, I forgot that football even existed. Sure, I *knew* it would come back. But after months without hearing words like, “my fantasy team,” “deflategate,” or “Tom Brady,” it seemed like the universe had finally gotten rid of the pesky sport.
But, as quickly became apparent last night, that is not the case. After running back into the living room with tears in my eyes, I was hastily informed that the season was, in fact, starting soon. Sure, this was just a preseason game (you know, just like, one for fun. One that doesn’t count. One that doesn’t need to be watched), but do you know what comes after the preseason? The real season. And do you know what comes with the real season? Not our boyfriends to any Sunday events. Cute Sunday dates, brunches, and Saturday sleepovers that morph into Monday morning breakfasts are done. Over. Finished. And in their place, our boyfriends will spend an ungodly amount of time watching men run around, taking turns touching different balls.
Sure, in a relationship you should foster and support each other’s interests. You should accept what the other person enjoys even if you don’t enjoy it. You should give it a chance, and try not to change them or stamp out their happiness just because you think football is painfully dull and blah blah blah.
We get it. But that doesn’t change the fact that football season is the worst season of the year. Which is unfortunate, because it occurs during the best season of the year: fall. So, what are we supposed to do?
Well, we can learn to like football. Rumor has it that lots of girls tolerate it already. Lots of girls even *like* it. Hell, some of them might be reading this right now and be furious that I’m disgracing the name of females who enjoy the torture that is football. I get and respect that. Hell, I even envy that. I’d love to be able to watch a game without clawing my eyes out. I’d love to get excited about overpaid guys running feet down a field for a good four hours in the middle of a day usually reserved for carbs and day drinking. I’d be happy to own a jersey that I actually care about, as opposed to the one I got at Pink to look cute when I first started dating my boyfriend and humored him about this whole sports nonsense.
But alas, I’m not like that. At all.
I love tailgating to no end, but that’s just because I like drinking and flirting. I love my college football team because I love my college, not because I give an actual shit about the team. And I’m fine with the snacks offered at bars during games because I’m a gluttonous pig. But football? Actual football? Pro football?
I’d rather fucking die.*
So, if we don’t already like football, and we don’t want to learn to like football, there’s only one option left: We have to put an end to football. We’ll burn down the stadiums. Make the players get mid-level positions at Enterprise Rent-A-Car. Give their houses to people more deserving, like the Kardashians. We’ll marry them and feed them Chipotle and doughnuts every day and not do the cute, fitness-y things they’re used to doing with their hot, supermodel (ex-)wives.
We’ll fucking break them. And we’ll fucking break football.
This season is the last season of the devil’s game. Forever. And if that doesn’t work, I guess we should all just get really drunk. Good luck, liver. It’s going to be a long six months..
*I wouldn’t rather “die.” I was being dramatic. I’d rather get involved in a pointless political debate on Facebook than put up with another season of pro football. Or listen to my mom’s slightly dirty jokes for an entire dinner. Or accidentally pee the bed a little. Not enough so that my boyfriend can notice, but enough so that I feel bad about myself.
Nice Move152
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Rachel Varina
(yeahokaywhat) Aspiring to be the next Tina Fey, Rachel spends her free time doing nothing to reach that goal. While judging people based on how they use "they're" vs. "there" on social media, she likes eating buffalo chicken dip, watching other people's Netflix, and wearing sweatpants way more than is socially acceptable.
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