I don't know about you, but just about all of my Sundays since September have been filled with football. I have a husband and a son who are fairly smitten with watching overgrown boys run around a field in any type of weather throwing and chasing a ball, and then falling upon one another to retrieve what seems to be as valuable as the Hope diamond, ignoring that they are potentially crushing someone else's--or their own--skull.
It is commonplace on these long weekend afternoons for my two boys to sit on our family room couch, snacking on thick, extra dark pretzels (paying no attention to the crumbs and salt bits that fall in between the couch cushions), tossing a football and tackling one another or our dog during commercials--and drinking. If my twelve-year-old is feeling really hyped up for the event, he'll ask if he can have a soda--usually saved only for special occasions in our house--while my husband opts for a cold Saranac Black & Tan, his beer of choice on these special game days.
When game time begins and all players--and viewers--prepare for the coin toss (or on some days the pre-game show needs to be screened first), that's my clue to take to the living room. I'll usually curl up on the couch, with either a cup of tea or a glass of wine close by--book, newspaper, and laptop at the ready for at least four hours of quiet time (save for the occasional shrieks coming from the next room).