I never liked football. Like, ever.
My girls did easy-to-understand sports like track and volleyball. My oldest son, Devin, played hockey and any other sport that had a projectile that he could land in a net.
But in a moment of complete weakness, I allowed my baby, Gianmarco, to play football, a game I’d long found incredibly Neanderthal. Vile — lots of climbing, groping, grabbing, grunting and dirt.
Enter, my husband, the “any sport I can find on TV including golf, but especially football, college and NFL all weekend long, any team, any day, any hour” guy.
And now…the Super Bowl. Trapped in my living room, the den of professional sports iniquity, I reapproached. On my own terms with good munchies, I will survive today.
These macho primal rituals dubbed contact sports can be enjoyed by moms if we angle it just right. Team Estrogen, follow my lead.
I began to identify teams via the quarterback. “Who’s playing today?” I’d ask Gianmarco.
“No, no. Names, I need names.”
He understood.
“Oh… Allen/Nix”
The quarterback. He was the preschool teacher playing hot potato: “OK, I get the ball first. Then, I will pass it quickly to the next student, and they do the same until the music stops.”
And, as my boys were watching four quarters of “the day I got my 18th concussion and got paid lots of money for it,” I began to put names to faces, faces I couldn’t see unless I went on Instagram.
First there was Patrick Mahomes. Likeable.
The Kelce/Swifty thing got très annoying but Mahomes was a married guy with a few kids. He did State Farm commercials. I became a Chiefs fan. Sort of.
Short lived.
Josh Allen, Buffalo Bills. The Guy Next Door. He could be your landscaper dressed in hoodies. Mahomes’ hodge-podge suits were an eyesore and Josh seemed like such a low-key, nice guy. He was a sleeper, an underdog who loved his sport and never wavered.
My God, the tears he shed in that heartbreak of a loss to Denver.
I just wanted to make him dinner and take him for ice cream.
A hot second for Tommy DeVito, because he graduated from my alma mater’s brother school, Don Bosco Prep, and is Italian. That love affair quickly expired because the Giants simply sucked.
What about baby Drake? Drake Maye. Eighth grade? Can you get any younger? Married and headed to the Super Bowl? Who is more excited — his wife or his mommy?
A basic North Carolina kid and a wife who likes to bake for the team.
Can you say Marion and Howard Cunningham?
The 49ers’ Christian McCaffrey? Cutie Patootie. Looks like a Ken doll. Can score a touchdown and play the piano. His mom did a really good job, you can just tell. Keeps his hair short, clean cut, like he just got drafted in 1952.
Trevor Lawrence, Jacksonville Jaguars QB, take a cue from pretty boy: You lost because your hair was in your face.
Aaron Rodgers, the Geritol QB for the Steelers. I know you love the game, but you can’t play in assisted living. Dude, it’s over. The season and your career. So, please, for all of us over 40, call the DOA. I’m trying to figure out what you are trying to prove, except that you have no hobbies.
Matt Stafford, QB, LA Rams. I love a girl dad whose four little girls love their daddy. Winner. Winner. Barbies and dinner.
Sam Darnold, QB Seattle Seahawks. Football “Gigolo.” He bounced from the Jets (if you call that bouncing), the Panthers, the 49ers, the Vikings, and Seahawks. All by the age of 28. He has to be exhausted.
So, ladies, if you can’t beat ’em… join ’em.
Perillo is an author and mother.
