When you meet me, the first thing I will tell you is how obsessed I am with the New England Patriots and the NFL. That way, you won’t be surprised/annoyed/aggravated later on in our relationship when I blow things off to watch games. Your expectations will be set for when all I do is talk about games or Tom Brady or when I show up to work in my old Rodney Harrison jersey.
I haven’t always been this way. When I was a small tot, Patriots games weren’t televised due to NFL blackout restrictions and my dad, the genetic basis for why I am such a psycho obsessed super fanatic, had season tickets and attended every home game. During away games when my dad would watch at home, it was an unspoken rule in my household that my dad was not to be bothered. Hell, I wouldn’t want little girls running around while I tried to watch a football game either.
Because my exposure was so limited, I had little interest in football. Although, as a five-year-old my dad did teach me cute little sports things to say to impress his friends such as who was my favorite quarterback (Steve Grogan) and name the Boston Celtics starting five (Bird, Johnson, Parrish, McHale, Ainge), but that’s where my sports knowledge ended. I was allowed to stay up only for the first half of Super Bowls (it was straight to bed after the campy 80s halftime shows – HALFTIME IN 3-D, anyone?).
But in 1994 my dad had to give up his season tickets and began to watch every game at home. I can’t quite remember why but one Sunday afternoon I sat down and watched a game with him. He patiently answered all my stupid questions and – BAM! – a psycho fan was born.