To be a member of our household, one must love the game of football. It’s a prerequisite. Specifically, we are NFL fans. My husband has a few favorite teams to which he has connections, like the San Diego Chargers, having spent his formative years in the nearby suburbs.

In contrast, I did not become a football fan until college, during a time when the Saints were utterly abysmal. As a Louisiana girl from birth, I had nothing to connect me to any other team, so I became what my husband teasingly refers to as a cleat-chaser. For years it was the Colts, and then the last few years have been spent cheering on the Broncos. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m a Peyton Manning fan.

At age two, Olivia is already exhibiting a fondness for football. While she occasionally requests a channel change, for the most part she is perfectly content to watch it with us. As a matter of fact, the very first time she watched television from her infant bouncer seat (allowing my husband and I to enjoy a meal together), it was an episode of HBO’s “Hard Knocks.” I don’t think she was following the plot line as much as the lights and colors, but still.

I presume that Olivia will grow up to be a Saints fan (like her parents), but, for now, her favorite team is the same as her Mommy’s. And, outside of Disney characters, Olivia can recognize and identify a single celebrity figure: Peyton Manning. All season long, I could easily prompt her to belt out a cheer…

“Hey, Olivia. Go Broncos!”

“Go Broncos!” she would echo enthusiastically.

As we neared kickoff for this year’s AFC Championship, I was a bundle of nervous energy. “Olivia, I’m so excited!” I squealed, as I settled her into her high chair for lunch.

“I’m so excited, too!” she mimicked.

Throughout the game (between playtime breaks), Olivia cheered along with me. She enjoyed watching my silly celebratory dances every time something went well for Denver. Following the victory, during the next two weeks leading up to the big game, Olivia and I remained a united front against all of the naysayers. Anytime she was asked, “Olivia, who’s going to win the Super Bowl?” she would grin and reply resolutely, “The Broncos are going to win.”

On the morning of Super Bowl 50, I prepped for the event by donning my Broncos apparel – a tee shirt with “Omaha” and the number 18 across the front. But Olivia questioned my selection.

“Mommy, is that your ‘Go Broncos’ shirt?” she asked quizzically.

“Yes. See the numbers 1 and 8? And see the numbers 1 and 8 on Peyton Manning’s shirt?” I pointed to his image on the tv screen.

“Yes,” she answered, and then, touching the letters on my shirt, asked, “What is that?”

“That says Omaha. It’s what Peyton Manning says a lot when he’s calling a play.”

She examined my shirt, and I could tell she was experiencing an internal struggle. After a moment, she stated assuredly, “That’s not your ‘Go Broncos’ shirt. Where’s the one with the horse?”

Aha. I see.

“Oh, you mean this one?” I asked, as I opened a dresser drawer and retrieved the cozy Broncos shirt that I had worn for the AFC Championship, featuring the number 18 on the back and each sleeve and, Olivia’s favorite part, the team’s emblem (a horse, of course) on the front.

“Yes, you need to wear that one,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“Oh, okay. I’ll change then.”

I was not about to argue with her. I am quite superstitious and had been wondering if I should wear the shirt that had witnessed the most recent victory, the very one that led us to this momentous occasion. Olivia’s request was undoubtedly an omen, and the message was clear: change the shirt.

With the Super Bowl ending long after Olivia’s bedtime, unfortunately, she could not celebrate the win with me as it happened. But, as I kissed her goodnight, I whispered in her ear that I would let her know the outcome in the morning. As promised, when I greeted her at her bed the next morning (while working to rescue her from an uncomfortably twisted pajama sleeve, which had soured her mood), I smiled at her and said softly, “Olivia, guess what?”

“What, mommy?” she whispered expectantly.

I beam at her. “The Broncos won the Super Bowl!”

Now, Olivia is not a morning person (nor am I, to be fair), but I expected at least a modicum of enthusiasm. After all, this was the team we had rooted for all season long. Instead of sharing in my joy, she collapsed dramatically onto her mattress, covered her face with her hands, and cried, “No, they didn’t win!”

Hmm. Okay. So, perhaps she’s not quite the diehard fan I had hoped her to be. She is only two, after all. We still have plenty of time to groom her.

 

 

*Go Broncos! (for as long as Peyton Manning is on the roster)