Skip to main content

Bills vs. Chiefs

 It's tricky to be married to a football spouse. 


I feel deep indifference to the sport--except that I wish that various players would stop assaulting their wives and girlfriends, and I wish that competitors weren't at risk of suffering permanent brain damage (and I wonder if Will Smith's crusading work, in "Concussion," has moved any needles, anywhere).


It's also tricky to feel ambivalent toward my hometown--because, if the Buffalo Bills do well, people come to me and say, "How challenging to be a Bills fan married to a Chiefs fan!" I've never been a Bills fan. To me, the best of Buffalo is Joyce Carol Oates. And Christine Baranski. I'd welcome this kind of text: "Go Buffalo! That's a seventh-decade veteran, Baranski, scoring yet another Golden Globe nomination!"

To his credit, my husband really limited the crazy-talk this season. He became upset when Buffalo grocers stopped selling KC barbeque sauce--and this was presented to me perhaps a bit too frequently, as if I could speak for the grocers. I feel nothing for the grocers. I don't know them. Also, wild-eyed, Marc showed me Susie's "lucky Chiefs sock": The sock had to remain on Susie's foot for a certain number of hours so that the Bills would go down in defeat.

When the Chiefs did lose, I experienced an internal challenge. I feel so cut off from professional sports, the events of a late-season show-down are, to me, like the minutes from a school-board meeting in Dayton, Ohio. Except this: These events had an impact on the man I live with. So I did a thought experiment. I recalled when the new revival of "Company" was panned in the NYTimes. And I remembered when Kristin Chenoweth lost a Tony Award--to Kelli O'Hara.

Those events were difficult for me; I couldn't control the outcomes, and I mourned the outcomes. I understood: This is what my husband is feeling right now. His Kristin Chenoweth has just lost a Tony. And, with that insight, I was able to say, with sincerity: "I'm sorry."

So I suppose football has "brought growth" to me. Strange new world....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...