Aftermath

My brother's girlfriend doesn't like sports. I don't get it, but it's true. So, when, last night after The Game, I received a forwarded text from her that read, "Give Allison my condolences," I had to smile and laugh a little. I mean, I could use some condolences; I'm sad. But what must that mean to her? Jennie, are you making fun? Could be she got a little play-by-play of me yelling at the TV or leaping out of my seat, but that is just part of the game--one I can't imagine not playing.

Although, the way I feel reading my box full of commiserating e-mail--some more effective than others: "I bet Brett Farve really feels bad about throwing that interception in OT." Yeah, I bet he is disappointed. Do we really have to talk about it?!?--I'd almost admit that there might be something to limiting oneself to the heartbreak one creates in one's own life. But, nah. I don't believe it. Even in the too-abruptly completed 18 weeks of football, there's been too much I wouldn't have missed. Too much excitement, too much fun. A roadtrip and a home game turned away. The slow and perhaps futile education of my daughter (the child thought the Super Bowl was over!), all those talks with my mom. It was a great run, and the best part? The Packers are young.

Of course, these are dark days now, and not just because that game ended the way that it did. I mean, it's basketball season. And I just don't get basketball. At all. Ever. No way. And hockey? I actually do like hockey, go figure, but it's terrible on TV. And neither are good for an every Sunday habit anyway. A four-and-a-half-month habit is beyond a rut; it's entrenched behavior. NOW what am I going to do? My homework? Ye gods.