I’ve long maintained a firm, immovable stance on the subject of football and weddings. It’s simple, really. Don’t wed when you can watch.
But, alas, I have no control over the minds of others and with that said, Saturday, my attention will be on the marriage of the betrothed instead of the oddly robed.
For this, blame San Diego. College football is to this city what a democrat is to Utah. It doesn’t exist and it certainly doesn’t register as the ever-important consideration that it should in such a matter. “Fall wedding on a Saturday? Perfect! No one will mind!”
See, a place like Alabama has it figured out. In the book, Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer: A Road Trip into the Heart of Fan Mania, author Warren St. John documents two parents who explained their devotion in a TV interview:
The reporter probes the couple’s devotion to Alabama football, and they say they haven’t missed a game in fifteen years. So the reporter idly asks what sort of things they’ve given up in pursuit of the Tide.
Let’s see, the man says in a soft Southern drawl. We missed our daughter’s wedding.
We told her, just don’t get married on a game day and we’ll be there, hundred percent, and she went off and picked the third Saturday in October which everybody knows is when Alabama plays Tennessee, so we told her, hey, we got a ball game to go to. We made the reception – went there as soon as the game was over.
Such devotion is probably met with disbelief, but I say, good for you obsessed Alabama couple! We need more like ya’.
Take me for example.
This blog’s got a wedding date of its own. July 31, 2010. Find me a conflict with that. World Cup soccer? NBA? Over with. Football preseason camp? Not started. Baseball? Get back to me in September. It’s completely sports neutral.
Okay, sure, the goal was always a summer wedding, but had it been different, I would have taken a stand. Well, that’s what I tell myself and that’s all that matters.
Go ahead and shed a tear for me this weekend. It’s a tragedy that permeates our society, but maybe with a little public awareness, it will be the last.
After all, while you’re experiencing the roar of the crowd following a Masoli fake, I’ll be calmly asking for a piece of wedding cake.
And that’s just not right.