Well, now I’ve done it. I’ve dived in head-first into the pool and I have no idea how to swim these shark-infested waters, but I assure you, victory (at least in my personal pool) is all mine. Game on.

You see, in our house there are five distinct seasons: winter, spring, summer, fall and football. That’s the life I chose when I married the Carpenter, and I have endured this insanity for 30 years now, so I figured it was time I got in on the action. 

Last year’s football season was brutal. It began and ended with heartbreak (eye roll). Seeing my spouse betrayed by his quarterback (I can’t even say his name around here now), the athlete who swore he’d be loyal to his Seahawks team, his fans, to the city, and then up and betrayed his allegiance for the almighty dollar, was ugly. 

I think there was less drama when the Beatles broke up (mind you, I’m still heartbroken on that one and I wasn’t even alive yet). 

It was a rough season of watching the “couch coach” in my living room witnessing the rebuilding of his team, and a glimmer of hope that next year, maybe, just maybe, things would be better. 

What can I say? I love a man who loves his team. A lot. It  was a very long season.

You know what got him through? An invitation to join an NFL pool by some fun football fanatics. It was a friendly, “just for fun” event created to offer spirited fans some bragging rights every week by waging their knowledge of the sport. It helped. He enjoyed it. You could say he obsessed over it, really.  

Monday morning. Tuesday morning. Friday morning. He would read out his previous picks and see where he landed. Sometimes there would be shouts of enthusiasm, yet more often, curse words were uttered. Either way, it sure made wins and losses more fun (read: bearable). 

I decided that I wanted a piece of the action. I mean, if I have to endure the longest season of all seasons with this man, shouldn’t I get a point spread and the occasional touchdown too? (To be clear, I only sort of know what I just said there). Maybe I should care more. Or fake it. Or invest in it. That’s how marriage works, right?

When I suggested I join the fun, the Carpenter laughed – well, more like chortled, a sound that suggested I couldn’t tread water in the deep end of his world. Oh yeah, Carpenter? I put on my blow-up water-wings and I jumped into that NFL pool and started kicking.

I pick my teams with a strategy: going with my gut. Random picks. Not gonna lie, I don’t know half the teams or the cities they represent and could only name the quarterbacks on maybe 4 of them. 

Don’t care. 

I have nothing to lose and nothing to gain, except the possibility of bragging rights, small victories and what I hope will be a healthy dose of beginner’s luck. 

This NFL pool is already creating some fun waves in our marriage and we’re only on week one. Nobody enjoyed seeing Patrick Mahomes lose more than my Carpenter. Jerk.

All I know is my marriage could be on the line. Legend of boom? Legend of doom? Legend of kaboom. 

We’ll know by Feb. 11. 

Check back in with me then. 

Go Chiefs. I’m ready.

WriteOut of Her Mind