Sunday, September 19, 2010

The Football Gene

I inherited the football gene from my father. He is a pathological sports fan and if it is on ESPN he watches it—burly men pulling planes, golf, poker, race cars, burly men carrying massive barrels filled with cement, more golf and even eating competitions.

Foremost in my father’s aggregate of sporting events is college football. Since I can remember, every fall he has watched game after game on Saturdays. I would often sneak a peak and wonder about the rules and which color he was rooting for and why. My father is an Ohio State Buckeye fan. Growing up, I learned that an Ohio State loss implicitly leads to my father losing his appetite and nothing brings greater anguish to my mother than someone not eating one of her carefully planned, multi-course meals. Every weekend, the stakes were palpable.

I’ve known about my defect from an early age. When I was in grade school, there was always an Ohio State/Michigan day before the biggest event in the world for those who live on the border of the two states. Sweatshirt wearing, taunting and name-calling were all part of the fun and I was right in the middle of it.

When I became a student at The Ohio State University, I decided I would escape the football gene no matter how much it hurt to stare at the long shelves of books in the library instead of the massive, raucous crowd inside the Horseshoe on game day. My sensible and recently mature side told me how ridiculous it was to care so much about a bunch of over-sized, egomaniacal boys running up and down a field with a ball.

Surely I had inherited a more productive pastime from one of my parents. My mother is a Midwestern version of Martha Stewart. She can stencil a ceiling (really!), garden, decorate all our birthday cakes and is an excellent seamstress. All my Barbie dolls looked fabulous thanks to her tiny creations. I even let her make my clothes in middle school. Having the sewing gene would be far more useful.
        
However, as my proclivity for college football was apparent at an early age, my lack of sewing talent was immediately obvious. I couldn't sew a straight line if Kurt Herbstreit’s life depended on it. Gigantic holes made while trying to rip out my circuitous seams were the hallmark of my creations.

Eventually, I gave up on sewing. The machines my mother has optimistically given me sit in my attic collecting dust while I sit on the edge of my seat every Saturday. I stopped fighting the football gene my last two years of college. I bought tickets with my friends, tailgated and lost my voice screaming at the games. I watched, horrified from the stands, as the Michigan Wolverines would destroy yet another perfect season for the Buckeyes.

         As an alumnus, I continue to watch Ohio State football with the same fervor. Any Buckeye fan can attest that this past decade has been a thrilling roller coaster ride. Even though I live in Tennessee, I make my children wear their Ohio State clothes every Saturday during the football season. They know these days as “Buckeye days” and if they wear the appropriate attire, it will positively affect the outcome of the game. Since I do the cooking, a Buckeye win is good for everyone in the family.

I have a defense for what some may call irrational behavior and I am not afraid to use it—genetics. I just can’t imagine the turmoil I will feel if my daughter ever asks me to sew her Barbie an Ohio State Buckeye shirt for game day. 

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