She calls just before kickoff. I’m making salsa.
I can tell she’s trying extra hard to sound extra enthusiastic, and it makes me sad. The meds she’s on make her so tired she’s spent the whole day sleeping.
“Are you watching the big game, Gam?”
“Now why would I do a thing like that?
I’m surprised. Gam has always been a huge football fan. Her husband (my Pop) was Sports Editor for the Philadelphia Bulletin. It’s where they met and fell in love and from then on out she was practically married to the Eagles, too, by default.
I’ve watched games with her before–my skinny little Gam in rollers and a flower-print kerchief with fists and feet shooting simultaneously in the air with random hollering, a lot of cuss words and maybe even a few comments about tight rear ends. She’s pretty intense. And practically more entertaining to watch then the game itself.
“So–you’re not goin to a party, or anything?”
“Well my Eagles didn’t make it into the playoffs, so I really don’t see the point.”
“You could root for the Steelers? They’re from PA.”
“That’s nonsense, Jenny, I’m not related to them. I’m going back to bed. Good luck with your salsa.”