Moments ago, I asked the internet what time today’s football game starts. 1:05 PM.
I don’t care half a whit about football, but my annoying flatmate Dean cares very much. He loves talking football at me, despite several times telling him, over the years, that I don’t care even a little, and despite a few times when I’ve simply walked away while he talks.
Dean of course has season tickets for the local Seattle Seahawks, which another search tells me start at $1,080 for the worst seat in the house. I’ve never asked, but Dean has often told me that his seats are quite good, so he’s paying more than that, though he’s also often told me how poor he is.
There’s a game today, so this morning Dean is fully dressed in a Seahawks shirt, Seahawks pants, Seahawks scarf, Seahawks windbreaker, Seahawks jacket, Seahawks stocking cap, and Seahawks earmuffs. Apparently, the team has never offered Seahawks shoes. I didn’t check his socks.
Fully Seahawked, Dean usually spends a few hours in the kitchen before each home game, talking football with Robert, my other flatmate. But Robert is away, running an errand, which makes this morning the worst possible time for a sudden inspiration to take out some of the trash and recycling that crimps elbow space in my room. But inspiration struck, so I gathered two bags full of cans and bottles, and emerged from my room, headed for the recycling bin.
Soon as the door creaked open, I saw Dean standing at attention in the kitchen, like he’s an honor guard. Immediately, he pounced, as if he’d been waiting for my door to open (which he probably had), and began telling me about his Seahawks garb (which he definitely had). I’ve literally heard it all before, because this is a recitation he’s recited on other Sunday mornings when I’ve been stupid enough to come out of my room and found him wearing Seahawks colors in the kitchen.
This morning, in pursuit of diplomatic relations, I stood and waited, bags of recycling in hand, and pretended to listen as he gave his Seahawks spiel. After what seemed a reasonable wait he was still talking, so I began walking toward the front door and the recycling bin beyond.
Dean followed, offering his pre-game analysis of today’s opponent and the offense and defense and standings and playoff implications. I passed through the door and went outside, and he passed through the door and went outside. He stood beside me as I opened the bin and emptied my cans and bottles into it, then followed me back into the house, still talking about the Seahawks.
“You know, I’ve told you a few times,” I finally said, “that I don’t care about football.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, smiling, “but you know I get excited.”
“I know,” I said, and he was still talking about the Seahawks as I entered my room and closed the door behind me.
And with that, the rare inspiration to clean my disgusting room has ended. That first armload of recycling will be the last, at least until Dean leaves for the game.
Which is why I asked the internet, what time is game time. 1:05 PM, eh? That’s about five hours from now.
I’ve never asked but he’s told me several times, Dean likes getting to his seat at the stadium early, so I figure I gotta stay holed up in my room for another three hours.
11/30/2025
Leave a Reply