I have kicked people out of my house for rooting against the
Saints. No qualms. Get. out. You want to watch the game on my big screen
TV and eat the buffet I serve every Sunday? You had better be here cheering for
my team and if you dare wear an opponent's jersey or colors, you won't get
through the door.
The only exception I make is to that New England Patriots
fan I'm legally bound to by marriage.
I have recently been called "passionate, bordering
fanatical." Yes, that's a quote.
During last year's Super Bowl, I had people throw blue and
white cookies on my lawn because I wouldn't let them enter my house to enjoy
the Cajun spread I had prepared, including multiple pitchers of
Hurricanes.
I'm sorry, but you cannot
enter my domain unless you are a Saint.
I even had the balloons I ordered sent back because they dared to put
Indianapolis Colts blue ribbons on them.
My husband is from Massachusetts. He is a sports nut, but even he has told me
repeatedly that I am insane.
That's why it's so funny that for the past 12 years, my best
friend is an Atlanta Falcons fan, as everyone knows I hate the Dirty
Birds. Maybe it's because she is my best
friend or maybe because she has enough dirt on me to ruin my life, but either
way that's the way it is.
During one heated battle, we stayed on the phone for the
entire game screaming at each other over plays.
My son had to keep coming in shushing me because he couldn't hear his
own TV, in his room, on a different floor of the house.
I had to leave the bed late one night because of the texting
battle we were engaged in. Apparently,
my husband actually thought he could sleep through Monday Night Football, New
Orleans vs. Atlanta. I put the phone on
vibrate; I don't see what the problem was.
The part that amazes even me is that we can calmly discuss
the game afterward. Win or lose, we
congratulate each other on a game well-played, discuss high and low points for
each team, and talk about it like neither of us were fans.
We've attended games together wearing our respective
colors. What is it about true friendship
that can override the desire to punch the enemy in the face?
Now don't get me wrong, for the six days leading up to the
game, it's all smack-talk, during the game it's a scream-fest, but when the
final clock ticks down to zero, she is the only person in the world I could
shake hands with if we lost and not rub it in if we win.
For the guy on the other side of her during the game: I'm not sorry I "accidentally"
spilled my beer on you and for the one who dared to address me on the way out
of the Dome: I hope that shirt was
ruined.
To my neighbor, the Minnesota Vikings fan: Dude, I don't know what happened to your
lawn.
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