It’s a weird time to be an avid NFL fan – particularly when you’re also a woman.
Beginning in September, I treat each Sunday as a holy day of chicken wings, beer and screaming at TVs. I play on an intramural football team. I own three Patriots jerseys (two, regrettably, bearing the name of a certain blue-eyed wide receiver who shall remain unnamed). I own the Patriots beanie, Patriots vintage tee, Patriots Christmas ornament and two Patriots beer koozies. I have funneled hundreds of dollars into the National Football League’s coffers.
When my fiancé and I recently went apartment hunting, we assessed each unit with our priorities clear: Where can we put the TV? Is the building wired for Verizon FiOS (NFL RedZone) or DirecTV (NFL Sunday Ticket)? Are there enough sports bars nearby?
But while Augusts past have been a time of feverish Fantasy Football drafting and handwringing hope for my beloved Pats’ upcoming season, my enthusiasm now wavers.
I am torn.
It’s because the National Football League’s true attitude toward women has never been quite so apparent as it is now.