He loves me! He really loves me!
I don’t normally look for proof. Not every day, anyway. But every now and then it pops up and can’t be ignored.
Pete and I are among the throngs of weirdos who play fantasy football. He had been playing for several years, and I joined him a couple of years ago. We’re in the third week of the current season, and both of our teams are struggling. Yesterday, as is the case every Sunday throughout the NFL season, Pete was stationed in his recliner with his laptop, watching games on the tv and monitoring other games on Yahoo. Every few minutes, he’d make an announcement.
“Your kicker just got the point after.”
“The running back you benched is having a horrible game.”
“Your tight end made a touchdown.”
“You picked the right defense this week–Houston’s not doing anything against the Colts.”
After awhile, I asked him, “But what about your team?”
“Oh. I don’t know. I think I’m winning.”
The darling man was expending all his energy tracking my players and giving only cursory glances at his own.
Okay, that’s probably not hitting the romantic nerve in most of you. But trust me: it’s a big deal.
(Note: I lost the game, miserably. I have the lowest score in the league for the week. Grumble. But Pete won his game, so our records are tied. I know you were dying for that information.)