Bowled Over

There is a chill in the air, Thanksgiving leftovers are long gone, the Santas are popping up in every mall.  This can only mean:  Bowl Season.

My husband is a proud alumnus and #1 fan of the University of Oregon.  If you scratch him, he doth bleed—green and yellow.  Almost every casual piece of clothing he owns comes from the Duck Store, an Oregon-based shrine to Nike and the Ducks.  He has a baseball cap with a duck bill, every official bowl T-shirt from the past 20 years, sweatshirts, basketball shorts, golf-club covers, a gym bag, a license-plate frame, and even a bottle opener that when engaged in its intended use will spontaneously play the Oregon fight song.  For many years he would try to slip out of the house in the darkest hours of the morning before I could detect that he was wearing Kelly green corduroys, a yellow button-down shirt, and an official, duck-laden tie.

There are many behaviors that accompany Duck status.  For example, we pay monthly for an extended cable package that carries obscure stations likely to broadcast Oregon football games.  My husband has been known to stay up until wee hours watching games that begin at 11pm on a Saturday night Boston time.  On more than one occasion, we have sat in a hotel room in a fabulous city while he streams a game live over his laptop.

It was very shocking to discover that this fanaticism was a latent genetic trait, passed down to our son.  He also caught Duck Fever, eschewing the many fine schools in New England to venture 3,000 miles away in search of his fortunes in Eugene, Oregon.  In a few weeks, he will (G-d willing) add his name to the rolls of alumni who drank the green Kool-Aid and became insufferable, lifelong Ducks.  No doubt, when he finally grants me grandchildren (I’m in no hurry, by the way), they will quack, too. 

For thirty years, my life has been wound around these insipid football games.  I was sad for my husband when Oregon fell to Stanford this year, taking them out of the Pac-12 race despite a better win record and higher national ranking overall.  On the other hand, I was a bit relieved that we would be spared the Rose Bowl this year, or the inevitable disappointment of a BCS championship bid.   What I don’t understand is how a diehard fan can suddenly become interested in the fates of others.  Come bowl season, all bets are off.  It isn’t enough to watch while a “close-but-no-cigar” Oregon gets pitted against a random team from the Big 12.  Bowl season is a bacchanalian fete of football indulgence, watching hour after hour, day after day of football contests.  My husband becomes an alumnus emeritus of every university and must watch each game, from kick-off to Gatorade bath.

When this occurs, my options are few.  I can leave, spending the season engaged in shopping, eating and merriment alone.  Or I can stay, relegating myself to the role of hostess, serving up a constant supply of beer and beer-friendly foods.  They say if you can’t beat’em, join’em.  But I have chosen to approach this with passive aggressive civility and practiced indifference.   If anybody is looking for me, I’ll be hunkered down with two seasons—16 hours—of Downton Abbey.