I’m superstitious. I really am.
Therefore, I believe that because my husband, the Carpenter, flat out refused to buy me a San Francisco 49ers George Kittle jersey this year, he is responsible for ensuring my team ended this NFL season with a heartbreaking 6-11 record. He jinxed my team.
My Seattle Seahawks-loving spaz of a spouse is okay letting me believe this curse is a real thing. In fact, when I confronted him with my hyper-paranoid theory, he said he wished he had that power. But he insisted he hadn’t summoned any supernatural powers to give my football team a crap year.
“Your whole team just got sacked by numerous teams,” he said, laughing. Yep. Jinxed.
I think he mumbled something about my jumping on the team’s bandwagon being the cause of their downfall. Me? Bad luck? I wore a Toronto Maple Leaf jersey at my wedding for good luck. Wait. I see how that looks. Never mind.
The Carpenter is not superstitious. He’s really not. Well, he does wear a Seahawks jersey for every game. But for the record, I bought it for him. Also, I gifted him a Seahawks key chain lanyard this year, because I’m a kind, generous, thoughtful, supportive partner, and his (stupid) team ended the season with a 10-7 record. I’m good luck.
I guess the lesson here is that I should have bought my own 49ers jersey. I simply couldn’t justify spending close to $200 for something that I would only wear on Sundays, Mondays and Thursdays, and also every time the Seahawks played. I can’t afford that kind of fashion. Meanwhile, half the Carpenter’s closet is NFL gear. I know because I bought all of it over the years. You think he’d do the same. This guy.
Oh, he cursed my football team alright. I can’t prove it, but the injuries on my roster right out of the gate predicted a season of woe, and from there we just fumbled a lot.
As the season comes to a close, neither of us are winners.
“You didn’t make the playoffs. We didn’t make the playoffs,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, calmly resigned to the truth. The moment of tenderness was quickly disrupted with this gem: “But at least we weren’t as bad as you.”
The Carpenter chuckled as he scuttled out of the room, to avoid the hex I might (as in, absolutely did) place on him.
This year he encouraged me to pick my own team, devote myself to the loyal fandom of one team and ride the wins and losses of football fate.
It helped me dive headfirst into an NFL pool for our second season of friendly (ahem) competition. Our friends set up this easy platform, and while I’m terrible at sports pools (or sports in general), I enjoyed it. Especially when I win, and even more so when I get pick of the week on a long shot.
Now that the regular season is over, I can tell you that I sunk to the bottom of the NFL pool, to an embarrassing slot of 170 in a field of 176. The Carpenter came in at 104. This is not a deterrent. Not at all. I can’t wait for next season.
I can only get better, right?
Right. But I’m still superstitious, so I’ve started a piggy bank for my number 85 jersey.
Good mojo coming my way.