Winner

Well, there will be no living with him now. Sunday night’s Super Bowl LX brought my husband, the Carpenter, and his team, the Seattle Seahawks, their long-awaited Super Bowl win. My 12th Man is elated. 

You know what’s more obnoxious than the Carpenter after a win? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

In his words, “That was a defensive gem of a game. We ran it, and we ran it and we ran it. No more throwing from the one yard line.” Sports fans have memories like faults. They never forget the sting of a loss. It makes their wins all the more obnoxious. 

Wherever you live in Wellington County, I’m sure you heard him cheering and yelling, stamping his feet, roaring his enthusiasm. In fact, I got messages from across our region from friends that were sure they could hear him. I don’t doubt it. Apologies to the neighbours. 

I was getting motion sickness watching him flipping his stressed recliner chair from laid back, feet-up, relaxed, to bolting him straight up, launching him to his feet to hop up and down – on repeat for the duration of the game. 

Only his chiropractor and I can fully appreciate the feat of this manoeuvre and the fallout to come. 

But that was nothing compared to his victory dance, which I recorded, of course, for social media purposes (also for his chiropractor).

My friends have described it as resembling Elaine from Seinfield, or Dan Aykroyd and Steve Martin’s Saturday Night Live skit, “Two wild and crazy guys.” I think of it as the Snoopy dance. Now you have a visual. 

Having years ago sworn my allegiance to his archrivals, the San Francisco 49ers, only made this particular Super Bowl win all the more satisfying for him, as his win was on my team’s home field at Levi’s Stadium – my field, my theatre, home of my gladiators.

Early Monday morning, after the big win but before that first cup of coffee landed in the my post-chicken wing acid belly of the prior night’s dinner, I was writing in my gratitude journal (things like, “I’m grateful that NFL season is over”) when I was rudely interrupted.

“Hey Kel, look,” he said, still in his Seahawks lounge wear, reclined in his chair, holding up his phone.

“The Seahawks are drinking champagne and smoking cigars in your team’s dressing room. Nice, eh? Do you need tissues to wipe your eyes?” Rude. But damn that mischievous grin wins me over every time. Truth? I’ve already ordered him a championship shirt. Love doesn’t always make sense.

Yep, he’s going to be unbearable from now until September. Absolutely unbearable. And yet, for reasons that can only be explained by pheromones, humour and a deep friendship that spans three decades, I will endure this Seahawk-loving man because, God help me, I still adore him. 

“There’s always next year,” he chuckled. “Anything can happen. You might even make it to the end.” And he might even make it to the end of the season (insert evil laugh). I’m looking forward to the battles ahead.

The best part of the game? Watching it as a family, with our grown-up kids. That made this year’s Super Bowl a win for me. That will be my happy memory. 

It’s just a game, but it’s the snapshot in time together that matters.