God Bless the NFL

God Bless the NFL

It started out as a disposable relationship. When I needed him for a good time, he was there six months out of the year. Weekends, Monday nights and the occasional Thursday evening, we would meet with friends but seldom alone. The attraction had little to do with him. It was the crowd he could assemble, with chips and beer, laughter and high spirits.

Those were my early years with the NFL.

My friend, Lori, gave me a placard that reads, "We interrupt this marriage to bring you football season!" I resented football. Always, somewhere on cable or satellite or radio there was an NFL game that interfered with my husband's diaper duty or ability to converse in complete sentences.

"Yes, I understand your frustrations with dealing with the kids all day ... Whoa! Did you see that? They got a safety! They got a safety!"

Many weekends have been spent rooting for or commiserating with the New Orleans Saints. My Aunt Ora got us hooked as babies. We've run the gamut from Archie Manning to Bobby Hebert and Morten Andersen and every player who has ever given die-hard fans a splinter of hope that some day the Saints would make it to the Super Bowl.

Watching the NFL games lost its luster because life got hectic. I resented the NFL because it seemed like a huge waste of time to sit glued to the tube for countless hours watching grown men run around in pursuit of that insufferable ball.

Times have changed. My son discovered the male bonding experience that is the NFL. He served as commissioner of his own Fantasy Football League. He can run stats like a bookie.
Ask him about any player today or even some of the retired guys and I guarantee you, he'll know more than is sensible. Through this football junkie kid of mine, I came to know the game in a different light.

When my mom found out she had cancer and as my dad's health took a hard turn for the worse, football season started. Sam delved into team rosters and schedules. He watched games to see how his Fantasy players performed. When the Saints played well, he rejoiced in high fives with his dad and called Aunt Ora as the Saints continued to beat the odds.

Meanwhile, the ups and downs of ailing family members threaded through the season. In hospital rooms and lobbies, John Madden's familiar voice comforted like that of an old friend.
Surprisingly, I found myself more than ready to sit and watch. The NFL and I, we go way back.For once, football felt right. In spite of worry and stress, there was laughter and gladness. Most amazingly, there was hope. The Saints had made the playoffs.

When those NFL players suit up and take the field, I imagine they focus on the job at hand. They have work to do. They face injury and frustration, pain and disappointment. A lot of people depend on them to bring home victory, to take us away from our troubles for awhile.

What I have discovered about my old flame, the NFL, is that in each team's pursuit of a Super Bowl ring, the rest of us find escape and a welcome respite from life's hardships.

It feels fantastic to see your team's running back catch a Hail Mary pass in the end zone.

It feels great to see the underdog win.

It feels downright euphoric to see your 79-year-old aunt jump to her feet and shout with unbridled pleasure while your son does the same, a pair of football nuts gone mad every time the Saints score.

While the Saints marched into their second playoff game, it felt like miracles are possible. And I know they are. Because now I can say that I truly enjoy watching football.

God bless the NFL.