Football is proof that God loves us |

Football is proof that God loves us

Fried Rice
Heidi Rice
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado
Heidi Rice

“Doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo … DOO!” Husband-Head sang along to the theme song of American Idol the other night.

I was actually surprised that he was even watching the program because a) the annual NBC network singing competition show signifies the end of football season and a glimmer of the upcoming spring and summer seasons and b) you have to watch a lot of really bad singers while eating dinner.

“YES!” I said, raising my hands victoriously in the air as I marched in front of the TV, blocking his view. “It’s IDOL! Spring is on the way! Football is over! American Idol is proof that God loves us and wants us to stop being football widows!”

Then I plopped my butt on the other side of the couch with satisfaction.

Husband-Head looked over with a smirk.

“No, grasshopper,” he assured me with a smile, leaning over and patting my hand. “Don’t get so worked up. We still have the NFC and AFC championships this Sunday and then the Super Bowl game on February 1.” I decided that perhaps God didn’t love us that much after all. …

It’s not that I don’t like the game of football ” it seems to be a legal activity that doesn’t involve machine guns or full frontal nudity ” but it can still be a violent little TV program nonetheless.

Husband-Head is a diehard Green Bay Packers fan, and he watched in sorrow as his team lost and did not make it into the playoffs this year.

“I can make an appointment with a professional therapist to help you,” I said, trying to console him toward the end of the season. “And I think they have medicine that will make you forget and think that you’re in the Wizard of Oz movie. …”

Husband-Head looked over as if it was ME who was the insane person. …

But while his beloved Packers weren’t winning, Husband-Head himself was scoring big money in his fantasy football leagues. Money he didn’t really want to tell me about.

“I won!” he shouted, coming up from the basement where he plays his football leagues every weekend.

I started to look excited.

“Ummm … but it really wasn’t all that much,” Husband-Head recanted, realizing that he’d just made a big fantasy-football-money-winning-don’t-tell-your-wife boo-boo.

Too late, buddy.

“Hand it over, pal,” I demanded, when I saw the $600 check. “NO!” Husband-Head whined. “It’s MY money!”

“No … we put my extra money in our account as well so that I can buy perfume, clothes and shoes that I never wear,” I reminded him. “You know the rules ” what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine. Welcome to marriage!”

He begrudingly handed over the check.

The next day, someone sent cash in the mail from another league that Husband-Head had won. This was about the fourth winning he had received in the last couple of weeks, so I decided to give him a little allowance to spend as he wanted.

“I’m going shopping!” Husband-Head announced as he skipped merrily down the sidewalk to the car on his way to Wal-Mart.

The thing about Husband-Head is that while he is very good at bringing it in, it also burns a big hole in his pocket.

“I’m HOME!” he declared an hour later as he walked through the door.

“Oh goody, the party can start now,” I said unenthusiastically, as I was half-asleep on the couch.

“I brought presents for everyone!” he continued, looking at me, the two dogs and the cat.

Ho-Ho-Ho! You’re just a few weeks late!

Actually, remembering everyone else and not just spending money on himself is a very Husband-Head-like thing to do.

He proceeded to give us all our gifts, which we loved.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” I told him. “That was your football money. You were supposed to spend it on yourself.”

“I love you guys,” he shrugged.

We then watched some more of the American Idol auditions that evening.

“I guess football isn’t so bad after all,” I admitted. “At least people don’t scream, swear and cry when they don’t win a game. …”

“SEE?” Husband-Head said victoriously. “Football is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

And then he smirked.

“Don’t forget … the Super Bowl is on February 1. …”

Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Her new book, “Skully Says Shut It!” is available for purchase at the Post Independent or on her website at

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