My husband Harry and I were married in our 40s. He’s what I call a sports enthusiast. We are now married 33 years. Before we married I knew he was a sports nut. On our dates he either wore his Penn State Nittany Lions shirt, or a favorite baseball shirt with “Phillies” blazoned on it in red. I even had an inkling he played golf when he wore a hat with USGA Titleist printed on it.
As a young wife, I felt couples should do things together. I wasn’t about to be a sports widow. I decided to become involved in at least one of his sports. I couldn’t make up my mind which one – football, baseball, or golf.
Before getting too involved, I thought I should learn more about football and golf. I already knew baseball rules from high school. I went to the library for books on football and golf. Big mistake. They were boring. Perhaps, a “hands on” approach would be the best.
“How hard could it be to swing a golf club,” I thought.
Harry seemed pleased when I announced I’d like to learn how to play golf. Soon he had me at the driving range giving me lessons. He felt I had a “good swing.” As the weeks went by, my exhilaration diminished – all because of the “exciting” golf stories he told me. One year, in order to avoid a winter snowstorm, my husband, with a bunch of guys, headed south to play. The storm followed and they ended up playing in snow squalls. Another story was at the local golf course. It had started to drizzle. My husband finished the game soaked.
After these stories I could hardly get through my lessons. I couldn’t possibly play golf in rain or snow if I was at the hair dresser the day before. Plus, I wasn’t an early riser! He’d get up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday for a golf game. That was my day off!
After a few more lessons, I decided to be truthful, “Harry, I don’t want to play golf!” He looked sad but said he understood. Within minutes, I overheard him on the phone, “Tyke, let’s get together for a game this Wednesday. My wife decided she doesn’t want to learn to play.”
Funny – his voice seemed to have a bit of a lilt in it.
I felt bad about not having an interest in golf, so I decided to try football. My husband had season tickets to the Penn State games. At my first game, I loved the band, the cheerleaders, the food, and people watching. I did not like another sport you have to sit in all kinds of weather to enjoy it. Once when Harry went to the bathroom, he asked, “Carole, watch the quarterback and tell me what happens.” I asked, “Which one is the quarterback?” Everyone around us laughed hysterically.
After attending a few more games, I told my husband, “I’m a waste of money. I don’t mind walking around town and shopping. We can meet after the game.” We were both happy with this new plan.
There were times when my husband couldn’t attend a real live football game. I knew, when I was a teenager, I loved cheering my basketball team on. I just never expected to hear loud thumps on the floor and earth shattering screams when he was watching a TV game. I grabbed the first aid kit and ran to the TV room. There I found my grown man, the “sports nut” on his hands and knees, fists pounding the floor and yelling in an ear-splitting voice.
Now, after 33 years of marriage, I know a lot more about sports than I did as a newlywed. My husband sells his season tickets to his nieces. He prefers watching the games at home. I certainly don’t run anymore when I hear screams from the TV room. At times, if I’m curled up on the sofa with a book (I know how to tune out the TV and sports nut noises) in the TV room, he still asks me to watch the “quarterback” and give him a full report when he comes back. I comply, “Number 10 quarterback, in blue and white, let the ball slip out of his hands. It landed on the ground in front of him, but between two white lines. In no time, both blue and white and red and white guys flung themselves on top of #10, the guy I was supposed to watch. I have no idea where he is right now, but I believe he’s suffocated!”
One year my class reunion was held the evening of a Penn State football game. Sitting at the table with my friends, my husband tried to leave discreetly in order to catch the score on the TV game at the bar. I guess it wasn’t discreet enough. My classmate asked, “Does Harry have a bladder problem?”
I enjoy attending baseball games since I understand a few of the rules. On occasion, we go to see the local, Iron Pigs or the Phillies team. I enjoy a beer with my immense bag of peanuts.
Harry still plays golf, even on vacations. We’ve learned to compromise. I don’t like to drive. He does most of the driving on our vacation trips. I make it up to him by giving him a day of golf. Sometimes he drops me off at a mall on his way to the golf course. Other times, I don’t mind driving the golf cart and finding four-leaf clovers while he’s deciding when to swing the club.
My sports nut is rather amazing. Sometimes when I talk to him and he’s reading the paper, he’ll say, “Carole, I can’t read and listen to you at the same time.” But he knows how to watch and listen to two different ballgames (he has a portable TV next to the HD TV in the TV room) at the same time. He’s just one amazing sports guy. And I claim him for my very own.
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to raising children to humorous stories about her and her husband to everyday stories to season stories and more.
