My father had a love/hate relationship with football.  He loved the game and talked about playing when he was in college, although I never knew if he was a member of the school team or if his career was limited to pickup games on the campus fields.  At any rate, he watched game after game on the television during fall and winter weekends.  The family only owned one television set, and my dad hogged, dictated, directed the programming.  Weekends were devoted to sports, and most often that meant football.

My dad sat in his easy chair and alternately cheered for and yelled at the quarterback.  When his team was down, he stomped from the living room to the kitchen, swearing off football forever, and then returned to his chair to watch the rest of the game.  He yelled if my mother’s sewing machine created static on the screen during a play.  He yelled if we kids walked between him and the set.  He yelled because his team was ahead.  He yelled because his team was behind.

Once, in an attempt to bond with him, I asked him to explain the game.  Thirty minute later, my eyes glazed over, I stumbled from the living room more confused than ever.  I was convinced that I would never understand the game and decided that I would spend my weekend afternoons doing something more interesting.

To fully grasp this, you need to understand that I was brought up in a generation that valued women one notch below the family dog.  If you don’t believe this, take a look at the advertisements that were popular when I was in my formative years.  When I was a kid, girls were taught that they could grow up to be housewives (really? married to a house?) nurses, teachers or secretaries.  Always a bit of a rebel, I was the first girl to ever ask to take high school shop.  I thought the principal was going to have apoplexy, but after several meetings, permission was reluctantly granted.  Oh the times they were a-changing.

For the next few decades, I was content to avoid football games.  My son and his father often watched games on TV, but I busied myself with other activities.  When my kids were part of the high school band, I went to football games, but mostly concentrated on what the band was playing rather than how the team was doing.  I never felt that I was missing anything.  Until last winter.

At the end of football season I was channel surfing on a Sunday afternoon and fell upon a Patriot’s game.  I had noticed that many of my women friends watch football, so I thought I might give it a few minutes.  Something strange happened- I rather enjoyed it.   When the season ended, I thought nothing of it, but when this season began, I started to keep track of the Patriots wins and losses.  I went to the NFL website and read the rules of the game.  By the play- offs, I was watching from my sofa, yelling and cheering.   Dad would have been proud.

I noticed small changes in how TV land regards women.  Commercials shown during half-time are no longer as demeaning toward women.  Women reporters are interviewing players on the field.   According to a September 2014 in the Washington Post, women account for 45% of the NFL’s fan base.  I found that astounding.  And encouraging.

My children were raised to believe that their desires should not be dictated by their gender.  My daughters embrace their femininity, but have never been afraid to try something because it has been branded as a “boy” activity.  My son respects women and regards them as different in substance but equal in value.

Will I ever turn down dinner and a performance of “La Boheme” so I can watch a football game?  Not on your life.  But will I be tuning in to see if the Patriots win the Super Bowl?  You bet your life.

We’ve come a long way, baby.