It's early December and staring at the white that covers our big front yard makes me squint as we drive home from church. The snow is still a novelty and is beautiful. We woke up early yesterday because shoveling isn't a chore yet, just fun. There are neat piles down the sidewalk, a straight line runs from our driveway to the end of the block separating snow from concrete.
There is a mad rush to get lunch when we get home. Frozen pizza is thrown into the oven, leftovers are pulled out and microwaved. My dad brings up a beer from the basement and puts it in the freezer, setting the timer so he won't forget. Lindsey disappears into her bedroom with her computer; for her it is just another Sunday.
First quarter. Me and Dad. Packers. Pepperoni frozen pizza. Snow outside. He in the lazyboy; me on the couch. I drove home from college for many reasons, but mostly for this. I get into the game and make lots of comments about everything, and he goodnaturedly lets me talk, his eyes fixed on the screen. Mom's cheerful humming is heard from her sewing room. She's flipping between the game and a cooking show.
Second quarter. This begins my favorite part. The house is cold, so I pull my Dora blanket tight around me. My eyelids get droopy, and I stretch out on the couch. The game is less exciting, and I am asleep.
Third quarter. Dad shouts at one of the players, and I am startled awake. Stretching, I get my head back in game mode. He explains things I don't know, and I try to make smart-sounding comments. I think my dad is so cool.
Fourth quarter. We watch to the end whether it's a nail biter, a clear loss, or a definite win. When the time runs out, we feel like true fans. The house is cold (I keep saying this because I forget what that actually feels like). The evening has begun and life is still lazy. There is no worrying about tomorrow when the Packers play.
For my dad, because I won't get to watch the Superbowl with him.