Every Sunday, I sit in my living room watching grown men clobber each other senselessly and ask myself what would pair well with a plate of buffalo wings and beer. I invite only those who will bring more food and who would also be comfortable cramming together on my couch for a few hours.

Friends quickly learn that our focus is not to be mistaken for unfriendliness because all conversation not football-related waits until the game is over — and if you want something from the kitchen, you are welcome to get it yourself. The gridiron pastime we call football is more than a weekend ritual in our home; it’s become our religion. 

The first Thanksgiving I celebrated after becoming a mother introduced me to just how much reverence my husband’s family has for the almond-shaped leather ball. After inviting my in-laws for a feast at the neighbors, they declined without hesitation.

I was dumbfounded, left in tears, and for a time hated the sport that decided to have their kickoff against the Dallas Cowboys as we were trying to dine with our friends as a brand new family of three. As the game stretched into nail-biting overtime and my in-laws nowhere in sight, I began to realize that nothing could get in the way of an orange and blue football game — not even a Thanksgiving meal with a new grandchild and a blubbering daughter-in-law. 

Over the following years, I spent my Sundays trying to understand my mother-in-law’s passion for football. Ultimately, I knew my responsibility would be to pass the love of the game down to her grandchildren, but first, I had to learn the basics. Two teams of eleven players each get four “tries” to move the ball at least 10 yards down the field to the opponent’s side.

If they don’t advance enough yards, the other team gets a “turn.” This all seemed straightforward, but a lack of experience and knowledge made the game more nuanced than the English language. Until our team was able to get the ball back into our quarterback’s hands, my mother-in-law would wildly curse every play the opposing team made.

In the end, I hung on to her every blasphemous word without flinching because once kickoff occurred, she wouldn’t indulge in any other type of conversation or get up from her seat until the game was over. 

Thankfully, my brother-in-law spent season after season patiently correcting my vocabulary while teaching me that attempts at moving the ball downfield are called a down, and we score points in the end zone with a touchdown or field goal. He explained to me why we continue to admire players like Terrell Davis and Shannon Sharpe, and why John Elway is our savior. It’s my brother-in-law who bought me my first jersey and made sure his niece and nephews always had one to call their own. His is a religion that wears its pride.

I have to credit my father-in-law for finally giving me a valuable role in the family’s weekend routine. Usually subtle and subdued, once the game started, he’d bang his fists on the coffee table, transfixed to the screen, and I thought he may have been a successful televangelist in another life. One Sunday, he noticed I was struggling to interpret the endless referee signals like I was in a losing game of charades, so he asked me to sit alongside him and become the family’s next “armchair expert.”

With no qualifications to referee the game, I used my limited understanding to give my opinions from the comfort of their living room recliner with hands held high. I finally became an integral part of Sunday football and my husband’s prayers were finally answered.  

Thirty years ago, I went to my first professional football game with the man who would later become my husband. As he walked me into the huge stadium, it soon became apparent that I was there for more than a football game. He squeezed my hand and led me carefully down toward our seats as a pair of military jets flew overhead. When he turned to me, there was a catch in his voice and an intensity in his eyes. He said that his grandfather bought these seats in 1963 so he could attend every home game with his daughter by his side. They’ve been in the family ever since. 

As another football season approaches, we’re all eager for the weekly worship. Some of us pound our fists, some yell obscenities, others know every detailed play in the books, and my daughter can rattle off every statistic with ease. I will proudly wear my No. 18 Peyton Manning jersey, making sure to keep side conversations to a minimum between mouthfuls of nachos. My mother-in-law would expect nothing less and I know her father would be honored. 

Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, balancing work and happily raising three children with her husband. She strives to dodge curveballs life likes to throw with a bit of passion, humor and some flair.