Monday, January 15, 2018
Today I am grateful to be a psychic. Like many of you, I have had little psychic moments in the past, yet I’m married to a skeptic. But these days the moon must be in the right place because I’ve had a couple of them come to pass. One doesn’t matter, the other might have made a believer out of Himself.
First please understand that I know virtually nothing important about football. I know there’s an oblong ball (which I can get a pretty good spiral on when I throw it), a large field, too tight pants (not a bad thing) and a lot of dreadlocks of various colors these days. I have picked up something about “downs” happening every few yards, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Churchill Downs or Downton Abbey so I don’t care very much. Most times I can at least see the ball, unlike professional ice hockey where they could take that puck totally out of the game and I wouldn’t know the difference.
So here’s how it went during the Saints (New Orleans) and Vikings (Minnesota) game yesterday. Aren’t you impressed already that I knew those names. I am. Himself was unsure who to even root for because the winner would be playing the Eagles next week. Our son and his daughter had left about an hour earlier and he and his dad were deciding that a frozen tundra team playing on cold Philly fields would be fun. They threw allegiance to the Vikings who were back and forth winning and losing for 12 hours or two days, or however long a stupid game is. The kid and his kid were long gone by now and the Vikings were losing again, but only by one point.
In the last seconds Himself was on the edge of his seat, sometimes standing as though they were calling him into the game lineup, chomping on his fingernails. I glanced up from my computer, noticed the measly amount of time on the clock and said, “The only thing that will save them now is a Hail Mary.” What is a Hail Mary? No clue. I just know that in my family of sons and husband there are hoots and screams and a lot of high-fiving when one happens. With their team. With the opposition, not so much.
I like the last 20 seconds of any game because that means it’s almost over. Finally! So I watched. Some guy threw the ball. Another guy caught it, tripped a little and then ran like a bat-outta-hell. The right way. A roar grew in the crowd and rumbled like an earth quake. Himself leaped off the couch, shouting, “Go, go, GO!!!! Oh my God! They did it!” Then. . .as if a little frightened . . .he stopped screaming and stared at me for way too long, until I asked, “A Hail Mary?” He nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “Told you so!” I bragged, “and you’re welcome.” He shook his head and muttered.
No, I won’t be giving out any predictions on the next game, yet, because you can’t force these things. You have to let them arrive on their own. But you can bet Himself will be paying more attention to my comments from now on. I only hope at mid-game I don’t ask Himself who’s pitching!