Or, Honey, You're Blocking the Superbowl
To look at me, you'd never know I once had aspirations of being a professional athlete. Perhaps it's because that was more than 30 years ago, and I was barely six years old. That's the age before anyone starts to tell you to be more realistic, the age when it's okay to want to be a circus clown or a ballerina.
I didn't want to be just any professional athlete, either. I had my heart set on quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys. As a feminist, I'd like to think my leanings toward equal opportunity started young, but the truth is that this particular dream was undoubtedly a result of my kindergarten crush having moved to Dallas. Lawsuits had not yet won girls the chance to try out for football, and I remember asking my mother if she thought a girl could be a quarterback. Mama was an avid Steelers fan back then. That being the era of Staubach and Bradshaw, we frequently found ourselves on opposite sides of the Superbowl. Whatever she actually thought, she told me if a woman were good enough, maybe she could.
There was the rub. At six, my most athletic activities were weeding shrubbery and climbing trees with a book in my hand. By the first grade, I was firmly entrenched as next-to-last chosen for kickball. Only my classmate Marie, an overweight asthmatic who was also the sweetest, most soft-spoken child I've ever known, saved me from being dead last.
Things haven't changed much in adulthood. The first and only time I've played volleyball since high school P.E., I ducked the first time the ball headed my way. I can't throw a basketball far enough from the free-throw line to hit the bottom of the net. None of this prevents my being a fan of football and college basketball, not coincidentally my mother's sports-of-choice. I occasionally regret that I didn't learn to play either, but I do score points when I'm the only woman in a room who can spot a player off-sides or traveling.
The media doesn't do a very good job of telling us it can be otherwise. I once ran across a questionnaire in a women's magazine where one question rating the health of a relationship asked how your significant other would spend the Superbowl if it fell on your anniversary. For me the question was moot: Anniversary or not, we'd both be in front of the game.
I'm not suggesting it's necessary to be a sports fan to have a good relationship with someone who loves sports, no matter what either's gender may be. My father has far less interest in athletics than my mother. There's nothing wrong with couples having divergent interests, as long as there are places where they do connect.
I am suggesting that it's dangerous and irresponsible to measure someone's love by whether they will give up a passionate interest to celebrate an arbitrary moment in the relationship's history. I'm not talking about the other extreme, where one partner pursues an interest singlemindedly and spends no time with the other. But we're talking about the Superbowl.
I'm happy to see the opportunities for women athletes improve so significantly in my lifetime. If I'd had Rebecca Lobo or Mia Hamm as role models, maybe I'd have hung on to my dreams of athletic success long enough to set realistic goals I could at least have tripped over with my two left feet. But, happily, I didn't fall prey to the stereotype that women only tolerate football, or I'd have been robbed of one of my favorite pastimes.
If a relationship requires that either person sacrifice a significant interest or pursuit, perhaps it isn't one worth pursuing. If you fall for someone whose passions are not your own, be sure you're prepared to spend time engaged in different pursuits. College basketball season is gearing up about now, and it's perfectly okay if I watch a lot of it alone.