Dating and romance are fueled by mutual attractions. It can be a love of art, music or the beauty of nature. In Frank’s case, one of my main attributes was not only that I enjoyed football, but that he had met a female who understood football. Please, give me some credit. I grew up in Pittsburgh, the home of the Pittsburgh Steelers, the greatest team which ever walked the face of the earth. I don’t care about others’ statistics and storied fables. My heart bleeds Black and Gold and I will wave my Terrible Towel every season. Sunday dates consisted of watching the pro teams and my screaming at the television.

When Frank and I were married, I quickly found out how much he loved college football, even preferring it to pro football. I can understand watching the televised games of your home team, the Tennessee Volunteers for Frank, and a maybe the local big-name team, such as the University of Florida Gators. But Frank took it to a new level, the need to watch – non-stop every single blessed game. He would sit on the couch, clutching the remote in his hand as if that plastic object had somehow welded itself to his palm. He would watch a play and then during a time out or commercial, click to another game and then back to the first game. We are talking the entire Saturday afternoon and into the evening. I can’t say with 100% assurance if this was the reason the remote began to fail, the buttons not responding to repeated punches but I suspect it may have been part of the cause. We bought a replacement remote before the next Saturday line-up. As I am the technical person of our dynamic duo, I handled the programming of the remote. Frank supervised, looking over my shoulder so that I didn’t block any particular channel, such as ESPN. and I programmed it. Frank returned to the permanent dent in the couch, his designated spot, remote in hand.

Our living and dining rooms were separated by a bar divider, with the back of the couch against the divider. The TV was situated catty-corner in front of the couch. Frank had left the original remote on the counter of the bar, rather than tossing it in the trash. Now, remember I said that the original remote worked sporadically. Maybe it would change the channel and maybe not. I’m sorry to admit it but I just couldn’t resist the temptation. Loving and caring wife was replaced by bratty and bored spouse, nauseated by the sound of Tennessee’s band playing “Rocky Top” again and again and again. Frank was absolutely engrossed in the football game, his team behind but driving down the field. He had no idea I stood, leaning on the bar, directly behind him. I silently changed the channel to a “chick flick.” He fussed and mumbled, thrusting the remote towards the television and changed the channel back to the football game. It took great control but I did not laugh out loud. Frank relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief as the Vols still had procession of the ball and had even managed another first and ten. Waiting for a few seconds, I switched it again to the chick flick. Frank’s reaction was even more heightened. Cursing, slapping the new remote in his hands, he rammed his fingers on the buttons for game. I just about fell on the floor, holding in the giggles.

Now it was a matter of timing. I had to wait for just the right moment – the pièce de résistance. Gripping my remote, I watched the Tennessee quarterback grab the ball on the snap, bring his arm back and release. The pigskin sailed down field for the ….. BAM! CHICK FLICK! Frank went ballistic. His arm came back, almost throwing the new remote at the television screen. I burst into laughter, unable to contain myself. Frank whirled around, realizing what I had been doing all along. The stunned look on his face made me laugh even harder. He snatched the broken remote from me and ordered me to get the “blank-blank out of here.” I can’t say if he has forgiven me yet, 25 years later, but it was so worth it. And I would do it again, if I thought I could get away with it.