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Is it weird for a girl to love football so much?
I can't help it, it runs in the family. My grandfather played in the NFL back in the day and—brag alert—was first round draft pick to the LA Rams in 1950. Following in my grandfather's college footsteps, my dad played four years at Villanova.
Had I been born a male, I too may have gone on to be a football legend. But since we still live in a time where girls kicking ass in the sport is a rarity warranting national news, my chances were slim. Instead, I've settled for playing flag football and watching Georgia football. Lots of Georgia football.
It's hard living in Big Ten country and trying to describe exactly what SEC football feels like.
In Athens, Georgia, Saturday is the holy day. We wear t-shirts that say things like "A drinking town with a football problem" and "The best time you'll ever have with 92,000 of your closest friends" (which is how many people Sanford Stadium holds).
We cheer just as loudly watching in the stadium as on TV. Loud enough to make it on the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Loud enough to get kicked out of restaurants.
This Saturday, we have a big game. Excuse me. A fucking big game. The ESPN crowd and Mike and Mikes of the world are surely betting against us. But I believe.
Coach Lombardi said that the difference between a successful person and others is not a lack of strength, not a lack of knowledge, but rather a lack of will. It's about who wants it the most. And we WANT it.
A house of shelter or rest for pilgrims, strangers, etc.
If you look up hospice in the dictionary, that's the first definition you'll find.
I learned yesterday that my grandmother is now under hospice care. She's traveled slowly down the road of Alzheimer's for about seven or eight years.
She wouldn't know me if she saw me today. Because she lives in Maine (and because she can no longer hold a phone conversation), it's been a long time since I've seen or talked to her.
This is my sweet Nana. I miss her terribly. I've missed her for a while, so I was a bit shocked by the fresh wave of grief when the word "hospice" came from my dad's mouth.
If anyone deserves a house of shelter or rest, it's you Nan. You've always been the picture of strength, determination, patience, tough love, and kindness. Witty. Sharp as a tack. Quick to speak your mind. A big heart and a big laugh. Hands always moving, always warm, with slight callouses from a lifetime of caring for a hospital full of patients, four children, and ten grandchildren.
At Thanksgiving especially, I think of you. I wear the cross necklace you gave me on Thanksgiving when I was in fourth grade. I remember the holidays in Boston, all of us packed into two rooms while the rest of the house sat empty. Jumping on your couches, playing dress-up in your closet, the smell of some form of Italian food mixed with cigar smoke hanging in the air.
I'm grateful for you. In every way.
Morning person, I am not. And yet every morning since August, I've been waking up a bit earlier so that this fur face can have her morning walk.
Not such a sacrifice in the summertime but recent mornings have dipped down to the 30s, with every surface covered in blue-white frost.
It makes for a chillier start to the day, but a much warmer ending curled up with this pup. Like right now, for instance, as I type this. We're watching the Colts game on the couch. And she has the hiccups. So spoiled... (both of us).
