I Don’t Watch Football Anymore

I grew up in a football household, a New York Giants household, to be exact. According to family legend, my first word was football.

My father had Giants’ season tickets. Every August, a flat package arrived in the mail, postmarked East Rutherford, NJ. My two younger brothers and I sat at the dining room table with my father, and I held my breath as he pulled out a season’s worth of colorful tickets. For the rest of the afternoon, my siblings and I picked out the games to which we’d accompany Dad and then mark those dates on our calendar. The first game was always reserved for our mother.

I always looked forward to spending my Sunday with Dad, just the two of us going to the game. I recall feeling excitement in the air as we drove down the New Jersey Turnpike, not having to cross over the Hudson River like most of the other fans. I also remember listening to the pre-game show on AM radio, not understanding what the announcers were talking about, but pretending as though I did.

My father hustled me through the parking lot, weaving in and out of the tailgate parties, the smell of BBQ chicken and beer tickling my nose. My backpack was filled with sandwiches. And hidden in my rolled-up sweatshirt, my father’s flask would sometime slide down my arms, leaving me to carry it as I tried to keep up with his pace to the gate entrance.

As I got older, my interest in spending the day with my father lessened. I begged off going to see the “G-Men” in their blue and red uniforms. Instead, I spent the day shopping at the Livingston Mall.

The last time I stepped foot in Giants Stadium was before I left for college. I saw The Eagles in concert. The roar of that crowd during “Hotel California” was louder than any touchdown Phil Simms ever threw. My obsession with football took a hiatus during my college years, when I usually spent Sunday afternoons hungover in bed and then scrambling to get term papers done before Monday morning.

As time went on, I got married, moved to California — trading the Atlantic Ocean for the Pacific, the Appalachian Mountains for the Sierra Foothills. Later, my husband and I started a family. It was then that my obsession with the New York Giants returned. I was homesick, and the Giants kept my New Jersey roots planted firmly in the ground. On Sunday mornings, I brazenly wore my game-day jersey to the grocery store and purposely stood in line behind people wearing the red and gold of the San Francisco team.

When Dad got sick, the only thing he and I could muster up to talk about during our weekly phone calls was the Giants, and whether or not the defensive line was going to hold for the upcoming matchup.

In his last year, I visited him in his nursing home on a Sunday afternoon. It was October, his birthday. I went to the local diner, bought hot dogs to-go, and sat by his bedside to watch the game. He fell asleep by halftime. I remember wiping the mustard off his lips, turning down the volume of the TV, and wondering if this would be the last game we’d watch together.

It’s been two years since my father passed away. For two seasons, I have forced myself to keep up with the NY Giants. I have worn my jersey and dutifully picked Eli Manning to be my fantasy football team quarterback.

But for two years, every Sunday during football season, I have felt sad. Incredibly sad.

Last month I received an email from DishTV, reminding me to renew my subscription for the Red Zone football package. I turned it down. The same day I called my friend who runs the fantasy football league and told him to give my spot to someone else. I put my jersey in the Goodwill bag.

This past Sunday night, my brother sent me a text: “You watching the game?”

I replied with a simple no, and flipped on the TV to watch baseball.

If you enjoyed this, please hit the green “Recommend” button below so others might also enjoy it. We’re on: Medium | Twitter | Facebook