Home > Marriage > Starting Out > I Was a Sports Widow
I Was a Sports Widow
I didn't realize how much I'd compete with football for my husband's attention!
Amy M. Tatum
 1 of 2
We interrupt this marriage to bring you football season." This is the quote monogrammed on a pillow my mom gave me six months into my marriage. Having lived with a chronic golfer her whole married life, she knew what I was going to learn being married to a football fanatic.
When I married Trei, I'd been to a handful of football games and watched a few games on TV. And having grown up in the Midwest, I was prepared to slap on my favorite jeans, pour a Thermos of hot chocolate, and hang out with my husband in the stands a few times. A few times. Little did I know that my husband, who grew up in the South, had a different perspective on the whole "game day" routine.
When we moved to Mississippi, I quickly discovered football in the South isn't just a game—it's practically a religion. The preparation for game day actually starts a few days beforehand as you bake gourmet goodies, fry chicken, and whip up a pitcher of sweet tea to fill your tailgate picnic basket. Once the food's complete, you find your favorite cloth napkins and matching tablecloth in team colors, of course, and toss in your silver candlesticks to set up your party (a.k.a. tailgate) in this huge park along with thousands of other southerners who show up to socialize several hours before the game.
And you can forget about your jeans. In the South, people don't just take a date to the game, they dress up: men in ties, women in heels and pearls.
When we weren't attending games, we were watching them on TV—all of them. Soon I began to resent football. And I dreaded the fall. That meant I'd lose my husband every weekend.
"I'm glad you have a hobby," I told him one day, "but do you really need to go to every game?"
"You can come," Trei said. That's when I realized he was just as likely to give up football as I was to give up shopping.
Reluctantly, I decided if I didn't want to be a sports widow every fall, I'd have to pull out my heels, put on my game face, and give this southern tradition another try. Surprisingly, I enjoyed it and got to spend the entire day with my husband.
And that's what kept me returning to the games, both in the stands and on TV. Trei was patient with me as I asked a barrage of none-too-informed football questions. But soon I learned what it means to snap, punt, and hand off the ball, and I discovered I actually enjoy football and can cheer with as much enthusiasm as Trei—well, almost.
Also, the more I learned about the players, the more involved I got. For example, one of the Rebels' tailbacks spent a summer mentoring underprivileged kids in Costa Rica. When my husband shared that personal tidbit with me—rather than telling me how many yards the guy ran last season—I was much more interested in watching that tailback play.
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