Women. You sure are fascinating specimens. Your lovely fragrances, soft skin, and angelic sleeping posture all come naturally as a stark contrast to everything we are as men.
And when we’re lucky enough to find one of you who loves us enough to actually share interest in our passions, then Oh My! Mountains crumble, oceans part, and the heavens open to blare trumpets of infinite glory. The whirlwind of emotions is astounding.
But you’re a wily bunch, women.
As men, we arrogantly believe we can mold these interests. We assume we can introduce you to something new, and you’ll appreciate what we appreciate by default.
And that’s when she completely destroyed my world.
I believed I could turn my girlfriend into an NFL fan—and I succeeded.
A woman who never had any interest in professional football was now sitting with me on Sunday afternoons (Saturday evenings and Thursday nights), enjoying the one thing that brings absolute joy to my life (aside from her).
Angel Navedo was about to create his own Jessica Simpson—not in the absent-minded, vacant expression, blonde sense. But in the form of a woman who would joyfully stand by her man’s side in blind support of what he loves.
Hold your applause, men.
I made a terrible assumption. We watched NFL games together, but I never gave a second thought to where her affiliation would stand. I’m a New York Jets fan, and through the power of all that is Holy, she would be too.
- B/R Ticket Guide
We found ourselves at odds during the AFC Championship game between the Steelers and Ravens. It’s when I realized she developed an NFL opinion of her own.
My adorable, sweet, and innocent princess had an unfamiliar glimmer in her eye while she watched the Ravens.
This is a woman who watched Jets’ games with me. She purchased tickets at the inflated StubHub.com prices for my birthday, and she braved the cold weather for hours watching a game she was only beginning to learn.
Selfishly, she was supposed to be the sexy complement to my brutish nature as an NFL fan. I wanted her to appreciate the game and enjoy it with me. I wanted her to look cute in her female Jets’ clothes and give me hugs and high-fives accordingly.
But I never expected her to become so immersed in the game that she would break away from the Eden I established for her as a Jets’ fan.
When I recognized her affinity for Baltimore Ravens football, I uttered the most difficult words I’ve ever had to say in our relationship. “I think you’re a Ravens’ fan,” I said.
She smirked her sly smirk. “I like their swag,” she admitted. “Ray Lewis is cool, and they’re fun to watch.”
The Realization of Failure
My stomach twisted and turned. I was stunned. She said another man’s name.
This meant my Jets weren’t cool—that my favorite team was boring, and she could now identify and appreciate aspects of the game without my encouragement.
My Jessica Simpson had become Susan B. Anthony.
She didn’t want to wear the female version of a Jets jersey. She liked how hard the Ravens hit, and admitted that she looked better in purple.
I love my girlfriend down to the very core of my soul. We will one day share my last name, argue over hair in the bathroom sink, and draw straws for dish-washing duties. I’m looking forward to all of that.
But I don’t know if I want her to watch football with me anymore. I don’t know if I can handle having her ask me why no one on my team is as good as Ed Reed.
I’ll see Kate Hudson’s newest movie in theaters. I’ll help her shop for a new bag she doesn’t need, and I’ll listen intently as she describes—in stunning detail—the intricacies of the newest bracelet at Tiffany’s.
But I’m afraid of what sharing love for the NFL means.
My failure has sparked all sorts of insecurities I don’t believe I’m strong enough to overcome.