Life is often strange when you are married to a nonsports fan who grew up in the quintessential sports fan's town.
My wife is from the Pittsburgh area, and I can tell you confidently from my previous visits to her childhood home that few towns embrace their football team the way Pittsburghers live for the Steelers.
But she's simply not a big fan of the sport. She'll root for the Steelers if she knows they're on, but doesn't follow them from week to week. She doesn't know the coach's name. She doesn't know the opponent. She still thinks Terry Bradshaw lines up under center, but doesn't know where that is. But as long as the black and gold are winning, she'll hoot and holler with the best of them.
That's why I usually don't tell her when the Steelers are playing. It's much quieter this way—plus, somebody has to watch the kids when the game is on, right?
Such was the case last weekend when the Steelers played Indianapolis. I watched in peace as Pittsburgh built a 21-3 advantage in the third quarter—a comfortable lead. That is, unless you realize that Peyton Manning is the opposing quarterback.
Manning led Indianapolis to within three points, and after a Pittsburgh punt with three minutes remaining, the Colts were right back in it. The real excitement was about to unfold.
This, naturally, was also about the time when my wife suddenly walked into the room and realized the Steelers were playing. So much for the sanctuary.
I tried to explain the situation, which was difficult, especially since I was explaining it to someone who kept asking, "Why is it called the Terrible Towel if you wave it when you want them to do well? Shouldn't it be called the Terrific Towel?"
Manning was sacked at his own 2-yard line on fourth down, with a little more than a minute remaining. I proclaimed the Steelers victorious, but my wife brought up what I believed was a moot point.
"There's still a minute and 18 seconds left. How can you say it's over?" she asked, like a true football-viewing rookie.
I told her that the Steelers would run the ball four times and the Colts would have to use all of their timeouts on defense and even if they got the ball back, they wouldn't have enough time to score.
"I've seen this a million times, dear. It's over," I reassured her as I walked out of the room.
You probably know the rest. Usually reliable Jerome Bettis fumbles on the next play, Nick Harper scoops it up and instantly, Pittsburgh was in jeopardy of the biggest playoff choke in modern memory. Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger reached out and grabbed Harper's ankle after a 35-yard return, saving the day, at least temporarily.
Meanwhile, Manning trots back onto the field, and you-know-who is in my face.
"Why are all the players on the blue team jumping up and down?" my wife queries.
About the time I was making the mental note that I'd be ordering out for dinner, Indianapolis moved into field-goal range for the also-usually-reliable Mike Vanderjagt. This game-tying try was no chip shot—a 46-yard attempt—but he had not missed a kick at his home stadium all season.
I'm trying to ignore the questions being thrown at me.
"So what did you say happens if he makes this? They get paid overtime? Sudden death—you mean they keep playing until someone suddenly dies?"
Fortunately, Vanderjagt missed. Otherwise, that someone could have been me and that would have been OK with Ms. Pittsburgh.
"See, I told you they'd win," I said, wiping gallons of sweat from my face. "Never a doubt."
She smiled and cheerfully went back down the hallway. All I could think about was how happy she was—and more importantly, how I could keep her from finding out about the upcoming game at Denver.
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