Recently — if you call a couple of weeks ago, ‘recently? — I announced I was Lions-free. It was at a family function, and well, it felt pretty good to share. I imagine it’s the same way an alcoholic feels when he or she professes to be going on the wagon.
What I was trying to do, in between bites of desert, was communicate to those who cared, that for the first time I didn’t care about the Detroit Lions professional football team.
I wanted to impress upon those near to me, my blood pressure wouldn’t rise whether or not the Lions win or lose. I tried to explain to the family around the desert table (a captive audience if ever there was one), this upcoming season meant next to nothing to me. And, I quote myself, ‘No big deal. I have no inclination to watch the Lions on TV. Really, I just don’t care.?
Coming clean before the family was a big moment for me. Geez, I’ve been a Lions fan since before I was born. My favorite Detroit Lion was Alex Karras — I liked the way his jersey was always untucked. I remember going to Thanksgiving games with my dad. I remember the Lions beating Terry Bradshaw and the dreaded Pittsburgh Steelers (when the Steelers were good). I remember Lions coach Monte Clark praying on the side lines with no time left and Eddie Murray’s field goal attempt went awry, ending the Lions season and sending the San Francisco 49s enroute to a Superbowl win.
I remember watching the Detroit Lions face off against the teachers of Clarkston in a charity basketball game. I still have Bob Kowalkowski’s autograph from that game (he was a big dude — offensive guard for the Lions).
I remember their theme song, ‘Another one bites the dust,? until they lost six in a row. I remember watching Eric ‘The Red? Hipple tear it up on Monday Night Football. In his debut game, before a sold out Silverdome, Hipple (a rookie, who had been the third string quarterback a few weeks before) ran for two touchdowns, threw for over 300 yards — leading to four other scores. Detroit beat Chicago, 48-17.
I remember interviewing Monte Clark at his Bloomfield home (what a nice guy). I remember seeing coach Wayne Fontes and his wife eating out, in Clarkston’s Mesquite Creek Restaurant.
I remember . . .
That’s when both sons (Shamus and Sean) reached over and knocked their mother in the back of the head.
Thwap!
Thwap!
They are not parent abusers. They weren’t being disrespectful to their very own mother. They were trying to unstick their mother’s eyes, which upon hearing my admission, had rolled so far back into her skull that they got stuck in the ‘up? position. Once she stopped choking on the plum ball she had been eating (knedle ze sliwkami, for my Polish readers out there), she cleared her throat.
‘This from the guy with the Lions license plate holder on his truck. The guy who religiously wears his Lions sweat shirt and one of three Lions ball caps each and every Sunday in the fall and winter. Yeah, right.?
I sensed the skepticism in her sarcasm. My feelings weren’t hurt. Just like the family of the alcoholic, who have heard it all before, I knew the nonbelievers would only believe I was Lions-free, when they saw it with their own eyes.
So be it.
Sunday, September 9, 2007 — opening day for the Lions regular season — approached must too fast. Before I knew it, gulp, it was game day. As the morning progressed, I felt myself getting itchy. To keep my mind and idle hands busy, I went to the garage with a basket of tomatoes, onions and peppers and made picante sauce. It was on the stove cooking by noon. Still, four hours to go before kickoff.
I think Jen sensed my anxiety and took the boys to visit with her mother.
I threw a load of laundry into the wash machine.
I cleaned the garage.
I went to the grocery and picked up some corn chips. By 4:30 I was sitting in front of the TV, a bowl of picante sauce and another of chips watching the Lions. When they returned home, my family found me in the chair, eyes open wide, watching football.
Jen said nothing.
(I can report, however, I wasn’t wearing a Lions hat, jersey or sweat shirt.) I guess I’ll have to ease out of the Lions a little at a time — cold turkey is sure harder than it looks.