The Fanatic of My Dreams

The icy, spine-chilling fact of the matter is, I married a Longhorn-lovin', tomahawk choppin', bona-fide sports nut. I'd always been the embodiment of the passive fan; the non-violent sort; a guy who couldn't begin to tell you the difference between an infield shift and a third-down nickel package. My bedspreads were logo-free and most of my crockery reamined untossed and unbroken. I was but a foal, standing innocently on wobbly legs, deep in the bosom of a snowy, Autumn wood.

Then I met her... in a sports bar of all places (I was only there for the wings). I was immediately smitten. How could I not be? Her face was that of an angel, surrounded by tresses of fine, golden-brown, silky hair, punctuated by sparkling eyes, and pursed, heart-shaped lips. She glanced my way... her eyes burned into my soul... the awkward silence finally broken by her cotton, soft whisper, "Hey ref! I know you're blind! I've seen your wife!"

OK. So, she wasn't wispering at me. And it wasn't even a whisper. It was more of a shriek, akin to that of a wounded howler monkey. And she wasn't looking AT me. I just happened to be standing in front of one of the 37 100 ft. OLED TVs surrounding the tavern. I was the dork waving frantically at the girl in front of me, who was actually waving at someone behind me. A meet-cute so far, this was not.

Up until that moment, I hadn't realized that the unassuming, little word, "fan," was only shorthand; an abbreviation for something else; something darker and altogether bloodcurdling. But, it was too late... I'd just encountered the fanatic of my dreams.

I finally gathered the stones to approach her. We met, talked for an hour or so, and fell in love sometime in the fourth quarter of the 1988 Sugar Bowl. The game ended tied in a knot, and come next Fall, so did we.

But still I remained an outlier; a non-member to her exclusionary world of Mendoza lines, shotgun formations, and charity stripes.

---

(Then):

Her: "Did you see that chop-block???!!

Me: "The butcher or bamboo one? I think they're both in the kitchen, underneath the sink, hon. Weird question..."

Her: (Gives me what I first mistook as the one-horned version of the hook-em horns hand gesture.

---

I quickly realized it was either learn the ropes (which is actually a nautical term, although my betrothed will swear it has something to do with boxing) or taking the chance of losing the cutest and kindest person I'd ever met on this side of the SEC West. And I couldn't do that. She just looked too sexy in her orange and blue face paint.

So, mini-camps ensued. My wife taught me the nuances of late-game clock management, the difference between a cut fastball and the four-seemed variety. I learned of double-doubles, and the pick-and-roll. Soon, I was able to calculate a hitter's OPS, based on his on-base and slugging percentages. I even knew the three variations of icing in hockey.

In short, I had arrived.

---

(Now):

Her: Their quarterback is killing us on third downs!

Me: "We should sit back and play cover one."

Her: (gives me a hand heart)

---

After 35 seasons of mostly losing and forgettable seasons for our teams (@#$%!), our love has remained true and (mostly) victorious. And every once in awhile, we still manage to have fun underneath our Falcons comforter. ;)