I’m sitting here, crying about the Super Bowl.
I have kept shoving the thoughts to the back of mind, hoping they will just go away and leave me alone. Leave me in the land where I go to a Super Bowl party to watch the commercials, and get together with friends. A land where I don’t care about the Big Sports Ball Game, and just enjoy being surrounded by people who do. It really is fun to be part of a sports-loving crowd sometimes…
Dad was a Seahawks fan. Since the days of Steve Largent.
And tomorrow, I’ll be wearing his old Seahawks sweatshirt in a sea of friends clad in orange and blue for the Broncos. I know I’ll take some good-natured ribbing, but hey – I look forward to it. It’s one more connection I didn’t know I needed.
It feels stupid. It’s just football.
I’ve never cared about sports. I don’t dislike them. They’re just not on my radar, in spite of Dad’s best efforts.
You see, he taught me how to throw a softball, shoot a basket, and to spiral a football. I even learned to swing a tennis racket. However, I was his ballerina. I watched games with him growing up, and loved cheering on my sisters in their various sportsball games.
But, sports just aren’t me.
They are part of him, though.
So, I’m crying about the Super Bowl.
I didn’t expect it to matter.
But it does.
Grace & Peace,
For You, Daddy: