I will gladly bear thy offspring, Thomas.

I may have been a late bloomer to this great American sports tradition, but I can now proudly say that I love football. I love Al Michaels. I love linebackers and tight ends. I love the funny orange chain thingy they drag out. I love the yellow line thingy they paint on the field to show us where the first down is (they paint that, right?)

I wasn't always this appreciative of all things NFL. I used to view Sundays with alarm, when my boyfriend would wake up, roll over to kiss me, then suddenly get the wild look in his eyes: "Holy shit, the game's on!" And off he'd go, never to be seen again. Sometimes I'd follow him and pretend I was the coolest chick in the whole world, that spending a Sunday in a bar, with no fresh air or sunlight and reeking of last night's beer and puke was my idea of a good time. I watched, and watched, but just couldn't understand it. "Ooh, they're running! Wait, now they've stopped. Why did they have to go and hit him? Oh, it was a congratulatory tackle?" And so on, until the said boyfriend would politely tell me to please shut the fuck up.

Years later, it wasn't a boy who brought me to the bliss that is Sunday afternoons and Monday nights. It was a girl. She explained to me, very patiently, the beauty of a strong defence, the intellect, poise, and precise calculations of a great quarterback. The amazing feat of a stunning interception. The blitz. The hail mary. But what really worked was her gently pointing out the fact that I could watch, for hours and hours, men with perfectly-shaped asses running up and down the field in tight shiny spandex pants. Thank you, God, for that gift called football.