I spent the entirety of my college and massage school career waiting tables in sports bars, a period of life that left me a little disenchanted with NFL fans. Those fuckers are crazy. And then, of course, I married one.
Despite my misgivings, there were a few sweet years between our engagement and the arrival of kids that I actually enjoyed the sport. It turns out that when you are on the other side of the table- drinking beer, cheering for your team, high-fiving random people at the table next to you, eating profuse amounts of chicken wings- pro football is actually kind of awesome.
Kids changed this of course. Not in a bad way, but taking your newborn to a sports bar to get day drunk and scream at grown men to tackle each other on a TV screen tends to be frowned upon, for good reason. So my love of the NFL faded a bit, never to the point that it had been during the waitressing years, but the honeymoon was definitely over.
So when FX came out with The Leauge, I resisted watching it for several seasons. I get plenty of NFL at home and understand little about fantasy football, beyond the fact that every couple of years or so we have to house a “championship trophy” in our dining room and that I’m not supposed to roll my eyes when my husband refers to players as “our guys”.
This was a mistake, the show is freaking hilarious. By the end of the first season, I couldn’t wait for fantasy football to start; I was probably even going to have my own team. It would be perfect, my husband was already commish of his league and I am just like Jenny, a sports loving beer drinking guys girl.
But then the NFL season actually started, and I remembered that while art may imitate life, the opposite is quite hard to accomplish. My excitement slowly faded as I realized that my life would never be like The League.
For example, where are my fantastic lady days?
It turns out that I’m not a Jenny at all. In fact, there is a very good chance that I am a Sofia, minus the sexy accent and giant boobs. In exchange for dealing with Fantasy Football nonsense for seven months of the year, including a few times a week when I actually even pretend to care about his team, I want my husband to take me to the local farmers market, buy me fresh flowers, hold my hand, tell me I’m pretty, schedule a babysitter and treat me to a nice dinner.
Actually, I don’t want any of that. I want a full weekend away with my girlfriends. And given that fantasy football lasts pretty much forever, I’m taking two of them this year. Love ya babe.
Also, where are the kids?
Seriously? Who’s watching the kids? Not once during an episode have I ever seen Baby Geoffrey, Chalupa Batman or Ellie standing in front of the TV mid game, demanding snacks and punching each other. I’m not calling out the show’s writers for portraying an unrealistic lifestyle; I just really want to know where the character’s kids are while they are watching football all day. Mostly because I would like to send mine there as well.
And does the word “hangover” mean anything?
Because it does to me. Last week I drank three glasses of wine in one night and paid for it for a full two days. And yet every episode of The League features happy hour, day drinking and shots. When is the last time you did a shot of anything and didn’t throw up immediately? Exactly.
None of this has stopped me from watching The League.
Just as I find myself willing to believe that Joanna Gains never once yells, “Enough with the belly, Chip! Pull your shirt down and knock out that damn wall already!” during an episode of Fixer Upper, I lose myself in the story. Together my husband and I make it through football season, he fantasizing of bringing home his league’s trophy, me fantasizing of a watching an entire game without breaking up an argument over who gets the last Go-Gurt. We may even begin to consider Sundays our date night.