It's Monday night, and even I can admit that saying, typing, thinking, and even romanticizing the word "Monday" followed by "Night" feels wrong with out a "Football" to bring up the caboose. Not that I watch the games, mind you, but because of where I was raised. Ah, Wisconsin!—the lesser known Canadian annex next to Minnesota—Wisconsin that might as well get giggly on punch between Christmas and Easter because there's seriously nothing else to do. I grew up in a place full of drunkards and die hard Green Bay Packer fans.
The Packers in the eighties: can you say, "suck"? Like worse than now? When they used to have The Battle of The Bays as a tongue in cheek tourney because nobody seriously cared who won: the worst team in the NFL, or the second worst.
Perhaps the scent of rancid ale and the shouting of slurred profanities contributed to my modern-day forced-disinterest in sports. That being the case, I showered as Nick began watching tonight's game. When finally I quit the bathroom—after the myriad primping things women must do—I found the quiet of the condo disturbing.
No shouting, no ear splitting volume of a washed up sports has been dissecting the play all uppity like he was Moses staring down the Red Sea—I mean, I loved it, but was Nick all right? This silence from a man who yelled so loud at a Badger game a few weeks ago that I had to leave the house was unsettling. I hastened to finish moisturizing my face and neck to get to the bottom of this incongruity. Then, something happened that allowed me to breathe easier.
A yawn. A loud belly-yawn.
That's right, I remember now...The Packers were playing tonight.
