The Gronk You’re With
I am inconsolable. The football season ended a month ago, and without my weekly dose of Gronk-infused NFL coverage, hotness for my husband, Dan, has dwindled. The doctor quickly diagnosed my affliction: “End-of-season affective disorder,” he says. “E-SAD. Very common this time of year. Ennui. Lack of pigskin. There’s no cure for it but to wait.”
The symptoms are devastating. Even my Etsy store, chock full of handsome crotchet work depicting the cover of my bestseller, The Gronking to Remember, took a back seat to my sadness. Orders piled up uncrocheted.
Dan tries in vain to console me with Super Bowl XLIX replays. I know he’s faking it—he’s been a Seahawks fan since I met him.
“Look, why don’t we try some butt fumble?” he says, reaching for me affectionately.
“No,” I say miserably. “Neutral zone infraction.”
“You’re new to sports, Leigh,” Dan says. “You gotta just wait it out. Before you know it, the preseason will be here.”
Preseason? Isn’t that something you do to a turkey?
“How the hell can you be so calm?” I suddenly burst out, vaulting upstairs to the bedroom. I think about how long I have to wait until the next season, and I quail in my regulation Patriots panties. The gulf of time blooms as wide as New England itself, as tall as the Pru, and as I leap onto our bed like I’m laying out for a touchdown and jam my face into a pillow, I begin to drown in Quabbin Reservoir–sized tears of frustration.
Summer, winter, autumn, spring: We weep for the end of our favorite season. And what of the fifth season—football season? Who weeps for football season?
Then I hear a noise downstairs. I am suffering so hard and Dan’s…watching TV.
“What the hell are you doing?” I scream, hurling myself down to the den, where Dan is standing in the middle of the room with the remote.
“Look!” he says, motioning to the TV.
But I can’t help it. I look.
“Bottom of the ninth. Ortiz at the plate. Three and two. Man on third. Sox down one. This could be it, folks.”
I sense the gravitas in the announcer’s voice. And what I see next astounds me to my deep, jiggly core. A very large, powerful man wields a big bat.
“What? Who? W-who?” My pulse quickens. My breath goes shallow. I know this feeling.
The announcer continues: “Here’s the pitch. Breaking ball. Ortiz swings…” CRACK! “Going long, left field! Going! Gone! Over the Green Monster! Home run, Oritz! Red Sox win!”
The TV crowd goes bananas, and I feel my insides swelling. Fire in the hole.
Dan and I lock eyes. Suddenly I want Dan. I need Dan. “Oh, Danimal!” I scream with delight and wrap my arms around him. “You’ve done it again!” We fly to the bedroom.
David Ortiz and the manly Red Sox would get me through the long, Gronkless summer. And I realize, when you’re not with the Gronk you love, love the Gronk you’re with.