I love the fall. I love the brightly colored leaves, the crisp air and the pumpkin-flavored fare. Yet the season has one blemish marring its absolute, utter perfection: football.
Perhaps blaming the sport as a whole is unfair, when it’s really a specific block of fans who put a black mark on the most wonderful time of the year. Walking down Court Street on a Sunday afternoon, girls sporting football jerseys are everywhere, strutting in their yoga pants, trying their hardest to look casual and undone while their hair is perfectly teased and their makeup has been painted on with an artist’s precision. They flock to the bars, prepared to cheer on their favorite NFL team to victory because they love football so incredibly much that they need everyone to know it.
The guys’ cheers and boos to every first down, interception and fumble are strangely a few seconds ahead of those of the gussied-up gals, but they’re wearing the jerseys and watching the game, so it can’t be said these girls don’t care about football. When the game ends, the girls express the proper emotion. Obviously, they love this sport.
I’m not saying there isn’t a girl out there who doesn’t appreciate or understand football. Several friends of mine — all female — gather around the TV every Sunday, donning their Bengals or Browns tees, shouting at the screen when the refs make a call they disagree with. They love football and really understand everything about it, and they can’t be the only girls out there who do.
But it’s the artificial passion, the feigned knowledge that tarnishes the season. It has become socially unacceptable to not care about football. Those who don’t show an interest are quite obviously hiding their secret love for the sport, because it’s humanly impossible not to love gathering together to watch 22 men crash into each other while being interrupted by referee whistle blows every 10 seconds.
I get the sense of camaraderie that comes with cheering on a team to victory or commiserating after a defeat. But is it really necessary to feign interest in something just to be a part of a group? If you want to hang out at the bars and throw back a few beers on a Sunday afternoon, can’t it be done discussing something you actually care about, rather than spending that time stealing sidelong glances at the people around you to make sure you react appropriately?
For some reason, it has become necessary for girls to pretend to care. Being “one of the guys” is a must, so they’ll drop $100 on a jersey for their team and dish out cash for beer every Sunday. They’ll spend 20 minutes flat-ironing their hair and another 20 perfecting their makeup.
Meanwhile, I’ll hide away in my apartment, snuggled up in my sweatpants, sipping a pumpkin latte. Call me crazy, but that sounds a lot more like heaven to me than spending three hours convincing guys I’m cool for liking a sport.
Nicolien Buholzer is the culture editor for The Post. Email her at nb360409@ohiou.edu.
