Once In a Blue Moon
Every so often – maybe once in a blue moon – I do something for my husband.
If you check the calendar, you’ll find that it actually was a blue moon on Aug. 31, when I accompanied Jeff to the Temple-Villanova football game at Lincoln Financial Field. It must have been. Otherwise, I never would have been there.
I hate football. Even during college at the University of Washington, I barely saw the Huskies play. I usually visited the library during games. Odegaard was awfully quiet then, and I could always catch up with the party after everyone had slept off their game-time hangovers.
I’m not a total loser, though. I did make one, epic, Winnebago road trip from Seattle to Pasadena. However, I don’t remember much about the Rose Bowl, except that the Huskies won. I was drunk, but I also just wasn’t paying much attention to the field.
And Owls vs. Wildcats ain’t exactly Huskies vs. Wolverines. Temple doesn’t even have its own stadium. The university has to borrow the Eagles’ on off days. And even if the Mayor’s Cup was Rose Bowl-caliber play, I still wouldn’t be interested.
The fact that this particular Temple-Villanova contest fell on a 90-degree, humid day, and that it took us 20 minutes to find our friend’s tailgate, boosted my mood. For courage, I quickly downed two beers and a bottle of water. I wanted to avoid the parking lot port-a-potties, so I decided to wait until we got inside to pee. That was a mistake.
An inordinate number of drunken coeds kept shoving us out of line as we funneled toward the stadium entrance. When we finally did reach the front, I realized we were carrying a Nalgene bottle full of water. As my husband was pouring it out, the security lady kept bawling, “It’s not the liquid. It’s the container.” I wasn’t going to throw away a perfectly good, id="mce_marker"2 drinking vessel. So I made Jeff push back through the inebriated pack with me and trudge the half-mile to the car to stow the bottle – all the while enduring a stern scolding.
“Just assume that I know you’re not enjoying this,” my husband said. “You don’t have to keep telling me.”
Once inside, I actually did start to have a teensy bit of fun when I figured out that Temple fans were chanting, “Fuck you, Nova!” throughout the game. I also liked critiquing the Temple “Cherry” Team’s butt-hugger outfits, swearing that I would never let my daughters wear such sleaze – no matter how well they cheered. I think the man across the aisle set some kind of record because he sneezed 32 times in a row. I was bored, so I counted. And I’ll admit that it was pretty cool to see Temple’s 5-foot-5, 165-pound tailback dash off a 56-yard touchdown. When my husband and I left at half time, the score was 28-10, Owls. I guess Temple kept its lead to win 41-10.
“Fuck you, Nova!”
“Fuck you, Nova!”
Here’s the thing: no matter what kind of torture I might have to endure – even watching a second-rate football match – it’s nothing compared to the tedium of the evening bath and bedtime routine. And walking out of the stadium that night, we got a pretty awesome view of the blue moon sailing overhead.