And I, alas, stood alone like one of the foolish maidens shut out of the feasting. All the more foolish, some might say, because I shut myself out.
Because I'm a non-fan of football. Make that a super-non-fan.
How that happened to a girl who grew up in a big football town with three sports-loving brothers is anybody's guess. Mayhaps a genetic kink in my DNA.
In any case I distinctly recall during the fall and winter Sunday afternoons of my teen-aged years sitting at the dining room table sipping some tea and trying to read a book or do my homework or hatch a plot to move to France while my brothers and father watched football on the TV in the living room, whooping it up, every now and then jumping off the couch and letting out with a protracted yell, Go! Go! Go! or No! No! No! that would end in a scream of ecstasy or one of agony.
I wish they'd quit doing that, I'd think to myself.
And I never missed a Bishop Hartley High School football game and glowed with pride the years my child was one of the players out on the field,
I've not watched, or pretended to watch, a football game since then.
And so last night, while the rest of the country whopped, wailed, cheered, booed, rejoiced and lamented,