Football is my friend. When there isn’t much to look forward to, I look forward to football. Bill and I counted days in August, kept track of training camp news, pre-season game players and scores, who made the roster, and odds to go the distance. I even snuck a jersey on a littlebear or two and picked up Dollar Tree fan-ware. Ready to go! Let’s do it!

One year, for my birthday, he took me to a Sunday game. A real live game. My first professional football game. I was out of my mind. Other women dream of a day at the spa, swoon over flowers or… oh, could it be?… diamonds? Give this girl a trip to a game and you have given her the moon. I use to not-so-quietly wish for live games. Due to time and traffic and money, I settled for row 1, seat A in front of our monster TV screen with the promise of no interruptions.

Football without Bill has lost some luster, but then everything without him is lusterless. I don’t know a single gal like me, decked in red and gold and checking the don’t-miss-kickoff time. At least not one close to me who can pop over for chips, soda and a win. And I’m not joining Fantasy Football men for a 1:00 game… awkward.

It’s a lonely football life.

The whoops are not as loud, the food not as important, the wins not as… fun. But football is still my friend. And I’m looking forward to it, to fill some hours, to flutter up my joy, to remind me of Bill. I can see him even now, peeking over his newspaper to catch the replay. I can hear him even now calling my dad to complain about the penalty.

I’ve got Carry Underwood’s “Woa oa oa” recorded, Babe. Sure wish you were here.