Driving home from a leisurely walk in Delaware Park early this week, my wife and I were conversing, as we often do, about some sort of sporting issue.
The issue at hand escapes me ... steroids in baseball? The Blackhawks winning the Cup? No, maybe it was about Marshawn Lynch's nasty habit of royally screwing up the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he has to play football for millions of dollars, but instead chooses narcissism and pure idiocy.
More than likely it was about her undying love for Derek Jeter and unabashed disdain for Alex Rodriguez, a subject on which she could outduel just about anyone, myself included.
It could've been any sports-related diatribe we've had since we knew each other back at Buff State in the late 90s. And there have been many.
It struck me then just how lucky I got with this girl. I mean, what's she doing with an average clunk like me? I have no idea what she sees in me, but she certainly knows, and that's all that matters.
How many guys find Miss Right and discover that she knows her sports? Geez, we once worked together as sportswriters—if romance novels were actually geared toward men, that's the makings of a solid plot.
Don't get me wrong, my wife is no doubt a "girly girl." She loves chick flicks, flowers and all things small, cute and "aaaaw"-worthy as much as the next woman.
And as gruff of an exterior as us fellas often have, one thing all women should know is that we absolutely yearn for femininity as a prerequisite to relationships. We'd never don pink tanktops or pay $75 for a haircut, own forty of shoes, or use Eau du Daisy perfume. But those things all attract us to you like moths to a flame. We can't resist.
And while Jessica has all those traits, she also understands offsides and icing, having held season tickets to The Aud for a decade. She needs no explanation of first downs or three-second violations, having covered football and hoops in her previous incarnation as a sports beat reporter. She fully gets the danger of pitching low and inside to a power-hitting lefthanded hitter.
She willingly concedes her favorite TV shows (thank you, lord, for inventing the DVR) to let me watch the Sabres in high-definition, and accompanies me to the odd game downtown. She'll even join me in the agony of watching the Bills' latest huge, embarrassing failure each Sunday, whether it be on TV or The Ralph. Now that's devotion!
And did I mention she's gorgeous, too? Talk about the best of both worlds. Jackpot!
That's the beauty of our women here in Buffalo: attractive, intelligent, practical ... and they know their sports. It's no wonder I've got plenty of company as a dude who moved here from somewhere else, and wound up falling head over heels for a Western New Yorker.
This blog is an ode to those girls, and in particular, my wife. Today (June 16) is our fourth wedding anniversary.
I recall a potential crisis looming as we planned to jet off to Hawaii in June 2006. The Sabres looked as though they were a lock that fateful spring to win the Cup, game seven of which would've been on the second night of our honeymoon. Something tells me Jess would've forgone the expensive luau we had booked so we could stay at the hotel and watch the game.
And that, dear reader, is how I know she'll always be the one. Happy anniversary, my dearest!