Sportishly Frustrated

Fall is here, and that means Football.
No, not the cool kind of football they play in EVERY OTHER COUNTRY with the little black and white ball, goalies and the like. That I could get into.
No, the American kind.

The kind we Americans, apparently, are supposed to bleed.
Fall is our favorite season, apparently, because strong, speedy men in tight pants and plastic body armor are going to chase an oblong ball made of pigskin.

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I like to tell my husband that, while I love my country, I'm not really an American . . . somehow . . . I prefer tea to coffee, dislike barbeque sauce and barbeque sauce-covered foods, and I like soccer . . . REAL football. No, I'm not as avid as follower as I should be, but soccer just makes sense.
You kick the ball between two goals, goalies try to keep you from doing just that, and each goal is worth one point. Simple, to the point, and let's be honest: soccer is awesome.
Can I just say I hate calling it soccer? I really, really do. It SHOULD be called "football" because that makes sense.
But not here, not in the US of A. -_-

American football . . . Well . . . Let me give you this conversation to demonstrate:

Chris and I are eating brunch at our favorite little breakfast spot in town, and he tosses a piece of paper into my empty tea cup. "Touchdown!" I exclaim. "Or . . . goal . . . Or something . . . How do you actually make a touchdown?"
Chris pauses and gives me that bright-eyed smirking look that tells me he is, momentarily, going to be tremendously entertained. "How do YOU think you make a touchdown?"

"Well . . . it's something about . . . Well, there's the end of the field . . . and the dude runs towards it with the ball, and then he throws it on the ground and jumps around all excited. Or, do they kick it sometimes? I feel like they kick it towards the fork sometimes--"
"THE FORK?!"
"I can't remember what it's called!"
"THE FORK?!?"
"I know that's not it's name--"
"Shhh! Stop talking. I don't like sports, and even I'm embarrassed for you right now. The fork . . . bahahahaha!"

And I know it's called the goalpost, people. I do. I just couldn't remember right then and I was holding a fork, okay?
Cool. We got that cleared up.

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Then there's the whole team rivalry thing.
Technically, Chris and I should be a house divided. No, really. His parents and sisters BLEED blue and orange (Florida Gators) while mine were pretty committed FSU fans. Rival schools.
I mean, really, it's the Montagues and Capulets, people.
Sometimes.
On occasion.
In some small extremist circles.
For Chris's father, it's pretty DANG serious so it could have been. We've just made a solemn vow NEVER to bring up football with both sets of parents in the room. Steve's opinion of my upbringing could be forever marred.
Maybe I'm being dramatic, but what else is new?

As it turns out, neither Chris nor I are into the sport . . . Sometimes, I try, but, yeah just not into it. Chris doesn't even care to try. He gave up on the enjoyment of athletics a loooong time ago. He doesn't even care for the Olympics, and that is one thing we will never agree upon. I love the Olympics. :] WHOO-HOO!!!

And yet, somehow, we managed to plan our wedding in a manner that hinted that we cared IMMENSELY about football and its fans.
Apparently, there was some HUGE Gator game going on either the weekend before or after our wedding, and his father and sister were singing our praises because, unlike Chris's other sister, we revered the game day and left it sacred, unmarred by nuptials. There was none of this sneaking text updates or streaming or radio listening during our wedding and reception. No suspense for game lovers. Because there was no game. There were several people who congratulated us not just on our blessed union but "Oh my gosh! Thank you SO MUCH for planning on a non-game day! THANK YOU!!! You're awesome!"
I'm not even kidding.

Honestly, my parents had a vacation planned the next weekend, and we were working around that so . . . Yeah, no one needs to REALLY know that, do they? I'll take being a family football hero just this once. Thank you.

Because, I'll be honest: I'm in it for the parties.
Football party food is AWESOME.
I don't care who plays in the Superbowl. I'll watch the game just for a few minutes just to LOOK like I belong, but, really, I'm in it for the chips and dip. I'm like an undercover cop or something, infiltrating the enemy to access the goods. "Oh, yeah, sure I'm cheering for ____! They're the best! Booo other team, you jerks! Now where are the chips? MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Oh, thank God. SO GOOD."
They're totally worth being bored and confused for hours while the room around me rages with tension and testosterone. Yep, totally worth it.

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And we're not just talking chips and salsa people.
These are culinary creations that ONLY appear during football season. ONLY
It's like some rare migratory bird that takes your breath away the moment it soars overhead.
That is the glory of the football season chip dip.
SO GOOD.

I like big chips, and I cannot lie.

Though, I suppose, if I'm going to call soccer "football," I should call chips "crisps," right?
In that case: I like big crisps, and I cannot lie.
There, better.