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"My life as a closet quarterback."

I am a football fan.
I know the ache that is felt Monday morning after the Superbowl is over, the agonizing realization that there are 6 long months until the first preseason game. I know the anticipation of draft day; after all, no matter where your team finished last year, hope springs eternal. And believe it or not, my cell phone even rings the Monday Night Football Anthem. Unfortunately not everyone shares my obsession and my love for the game -most notably, my spouse. Like I said, I am a football fan. What I didn't tell you was- I am also a woman.

I developed my love of football at an early age when my father would take me to watch his high school alma mater play under the Friday Night lights. My head brushed the oak tree branches as I rode proudly on his shoulders. He taught me what down and distance it was, who the men in the striped shirts were, and why you can't just pick the team you are rooting for based on jersey color. Eventually, I learned that the Tampa Cover 2 was a defensive scheme, NOT an official football rain jacket!

When I went off to college, I was sure that my extensive knowledge of the game would one day impress my future husband. OH how wrong I was. I seemed to marry the only man this side of the Mississippi that doesn't like football. In fact, he doesn't like sports of any kind. Don't get me wrong; he enjoys playing sports just like the rest of us, but watching sports? Now that's a different story.

At first I tried to down play my enthusiasm for the game. I pretended to casually flip by Monday Night Football games and if he wasn't in the room, I would linger with my finger nervously caressing the channel button in case he returned. I scoured Internet web sites for football information, got involved in fantasy football leagues, and watched the draft all in secret. I admittedly felt a little guilty when my husband thanked me for upgrading our cable so he could watch the History channel. He was blissfully unaware that watching the Combine on the NFL Network was my only real concern. I was not the thoughtful wife he loved. I was an imposter, a football fan in hiding.

He didn't understand the importance of an offensive line, or how a coach's decision to trade your star defensive end for what amounts to a bench warming water boy could ruin your entire year. But I did. I wanted to tell him how exciting it was to watch your team come from 3 touchdowns behind to tie the game in the final seconds. Still, I kept my

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