football

I’m not a believer in Karma, Tarot cards, fortune telling, or Ouija Boards, but I had very weird things happen over the last few months. It began with a phone call from my sister who lives in Texas.

“Sue, Cal is going to visit Mount Vermillion next weekend.”

Cal? Her eldest grandson who was born and raised in Houston suburbia was visiting a very small Ohio university in the winter?

“Why?”

“He’s being recruited to play football, and he knows one of the coaches there.”

Granted Mount Vermillion does have an exceptional Division I team, but a big city guy, who’s never lived in winter in a small town, may find the Midwest weather and its culture challenging.

Several months later, Cal phoned. “Aunt Sue, I’ve committed to Mount Vermillion.”

Woowoo! Fifty-six years ago, I graduated from there. Both my brother and my ex-husband went there. “Congratulations, big guy! Perhaps, I’ll come and visit you.”

This week I was dealt the ultimate woowoo. My sister texted: Cal got his room assignment. He’s going to live in Colter Hall.

WTH? Colter Hall? Where I lived as a freshman sixty years ago? Where I watched my brother jumped off the roof a couple years later after a panty raid? Ye, Gods! I texted my college roommate, who resides in Mount Vermillion’s town: Cal is going to live in Colter Hall!

Her response: On our floor?

I responded: No. He’s on the first floor. Do hope the U has remodeled those rooms in 60 years.

The next morning, she called. “Don’t worry, Sue. Our names, cigarette burns, and etchings on the restroom stalls were vanquished years ago.”

“But what about the washer that Hansen threw up in when she couldn’t find the bathroom?”

“Damn it, Sue! Stop with the memories! Have you ever heard of a 60-year-old washing machine? Are you losing it?”

No. Woowoo.

That’s what I am. Of course, there was a time when I was not. When I was in high school, I faithfully sat through every football and basketball game to root for my friends on the field or court. When my girls played tennis, I was there. When my youngest was a cheerleader I sat on the front row bleacher. As a football season ticket holder and alumna of Arizona State, I sat in the crumbling Pasadena Stadium and watch Ohio State beat us in the last seconds of the Rose Bowl. Admittedly, I closed my eyes when Luis Gonzales came to bat in the ninth inning of the World Series. But, with rain drizzling down my face, I saw him cross home plate, and I heard the announcer scream, “OMG! The Diamondbacks win!”

Time passed. My interest waned. Why? Perhaps because I didn’t know any of the players or I just didn’t care. In fact, some folk would ask me, Aren’t you excited about… and cite some random team name? No, I’m not. It doesn’t matter. At this stage in my life, I’ve better things to do than sit on the sofa for three and a half hours and watch football, or basketball, or baseball, or put-me-to-sleep golf.

My sports’ lifestyle today is best described as a two-minute-warning. Then and only then am I able to turn my attention to the TV, unless it’s Miller Time!

Dr. Suze Espouses

A Woowoo Experience

The Last Inning Fan