Are We There Yet?
Only female in house blitzed again by the football season
At long last and without further adieu, the football season is upon us, and as the only female in a houseful of football nuts, I'm handling it about as well as a quarterback who just got blitzed.

• LORI CLINCH

Whatever the heck that means.

At the risk of being shunned by my front line, I must say that I fail to see the importance of football.

Perhaps it is because I don't understand it. Perhaps it's because I'm sick of hearing about it. Or … perhaps it's because I tend to think that a pass interference is a first kiss that gets interrupted by dear old dad.

Still, the Clinch men live and breathe the game and talk about it endlessly. With their game faces on and their chests puffed out, they converse about bulking up the front line and putting pressure on the opposing quarterback. Then they rehash the running game, the special teams and whether or not the defense can take it to another level.

Being one to easily get bored with football, I usually try to steer the conversation toward something more rewarding like how festive the table looks with our new dishes. But then I say bowl, and their minds go to game and the conversation goes right back to football.

I've tried to get involved in the conversation. I've laughed when they laughed, frowned when they frowned and have even been known to say, "That's dad-gummed right!" when I feel the moment calls for it. But they know that I don't know what I'm talking about and my astute remarks are met with eye rolls and long sighs.

Although I realize what a first down consists of, can visualize a pass play and am able to make colorful commentary about a shotgun formation, I confuse my terms, misuse my terminology and have been known to call a kicker a punt returner.

Oh the shame.

This wouldn't all be so pathetic if I didn't spend the bulk of my time sitting at football games watching the kids play it five days a week and twice on Tuesdays.

Generally speaking, I can't follow the path of the ball once the play goes into action, much less decipher what the next guy does with it, or what infractions occur as attempts are made to give it to someone else. So I sit in the stands with fans who talk up the game, analyze the plays and converse

as if their opinions are being broadcast on ESPN. It seems as though the entire world is consumed with football, and a gal like me can find no reprieve. Why just the other day a family friend cornered me and babbled on about gridirons, encroachments,

crab blocks, and by the time he got to squib kicks and substitutions, I was longing for a Tylenol and a turnover.

My brother, who had not phoned me for the better part of a week, called and said, "Hey, sis, did you catch that game?"

"Well, no," I said as I looked around for a Clinch boy to hand the phone to.

Alas, it was too late as he was already off and running, "We don't got no defense, no pass rush whatsoever and our secondary is totally bogus."

"Oh?" I said as I leaned into the hall and hoped to snag a football fan of any sort.

"Yes," he went on to say, "we need to make plays, cover the pass rush and for the love of lineman, can nobody stop the run?"

On and on he went as I doodled on a tablet, peeled off my fingernail polish and examined my hands for age spots. I could have stopped him short, but I guess I didn't have the heart to tell him that he lost me at bogus.

Looking for a place where I could put up my feet and think about something besides illegal procedures and false starts, I went to the living room and sat down with a magazine.

Imagine my dismay when my little Charlie showed up tossing his football into the air as he said around his mouthpiece, "Man! We've got a great quarterback who can throw the ball but can't run it, and our offensive line is just not cutting it."

"Oh," I said as if I knew what I was talking about, "do you think we could do better if the defense could bolt."

"Don't you mean blitz?"

You know if Charlie has it down pat in his 11 short years, perhaps it'd be best if I just threw in the towel.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.