I married a jock.
She Said: He warned me. When we were dating, his softball team won their tournament, so we went out for pizza and beer with the team. As he walked me to my car afterward he said, "You know I'm a jock, right? Is that going to be OK with you?"
Of course I knew, and of course it was OK. In fact, it's one of the things I liked about him. He was physically active and fit, which I found attractive. I thought his love of football and baseball was really cute. It was something I could relate to, having grown up with a sports fan for a dad. And I enjoyed the rivalry between his teams and my dad's. They're on opposite ends of every major American sports spectrum. Tony likes the Steelers, my dad roots for the Raiders (that's the OAKLAND Raiders--and actually, he's more of a Niners fan, but there's more of a rivalry between the Steelers and the Raiders); Tony's a Lakers fan, my dad's a Celtics fan; Tony roots for the Dodgers, my dad's loyal to the Giants. It gives them something to talk about.
But recently I have seen my dear husband turn into a maniac. He screams, he whines, he stomps his feet. It's hard to watch him spiral out of control. It's like a sickness. It consumes the whole house. He admitted to me once that he wishes he could just be a fan instead of a fanatic.
He said, "Maybe it would have been good for you to see me through the playoffs before deciding to marry me." While we knew each other last football season, we only watched a few games together, and he was relatively tame. I think he was on his best behavior because we had just begun seeing each other.
I said, "I still would have married you. Loving you isn't a choice; it's a compulsion."