I have a love/hate relationship with football.
I hate that, for the last remaining 80 degree days in the fall, I find myself sitting inside yelling at the television as if it was the playoffs. I hate that Sundays in the fall mean nose-tingling wings (I don't eat them, but the smell permeates my apartment). I hate the uniforms; let's face it, NO ONE even my dear Eli looks that good in white spandex pants.
But I love it. I just do. A football game -- and God bless him, an Eli-led offensive game pre-2011 -- is the most intense three hours of any given Sunday. I love the cheers. I went to an Eagles/Falcons game a few years back and learned the words to "Fly Eagles Fly" as it played on the Jumbotron. I used to love reading The Sports Gal, aka Bill Simmons' wife, and how she'd make writing about "Gossip Girl" and Brett Favre in the same sentence seem completely normal. I love that, as a kid, my father and I watched the games and to this day we talk Giants.
I love that I can still dazzle my husband with my random football knowledge after nearly a decade of watching games together. I love that we can root for each other's teams (he is, an, ahem, Atlanta Falcons fan) and have no hard feelings.
What I love most, though, is the simple joy of winning in New York City. I love that this town rallies around its teams in such a down-home, small-town way despite our size. In 2008, the streets were mobbed after the Giants won over the Pats. I loved every minute of it. I love a Rex Ryan press conference (who doesn't?). It's the feeling of community that football brings to this town that makes the game special to me.
And on that note ... Go Giants!