Game Day Sunday: Inside an NFL Home
By Shannon O'Toole

 

Something was different when I awoke. Deep breathing and light snores emanated from a foreign bulge to my left. It took me an anxious second or two to remember why I wasn't alone in the king-sized bed. "Oh yeah, right, it's Game Day." The bulky, noise-some mass beside me was John. The 100-hours per week coaching robot, also known as my husband, was sleeping. Sundays are the rare mornings that he can rest until 8:00 am - a whole 4.5 hours longer than his customary wake-up time. "I get to sleep in. I get to sleep in," he chanted on Saturday night as his dead weight plummeted onto the sheets and he balled his fist into a darkened eye socket. Pushing back the duvet cover, I silently motioned the dogs to follow me out of the bedroom.

As I considered making pancakes for breakfast, I wondered yet again how John handles the tremendous amount of hours so ridiculously common for NFL coaches. I could never, ever work as hard and as long as he does. It's amusing to me when men outside of football envy his job. "Oh man, you coach football? Really? In the NFL? I would love to do that." They could try, but I'm positive the majority would not succeed. They couldn't handle the uncompromising workload. "No sick days?" they'd question a coughing, flu-bitten assistant coach. Then they would ask, "You mean Saturday team meetings come before my kid's birthday party?" And, finally, most shocking would be the blatant disregard of holidays, "For real? We gotta come in on Christmas?!"

As I heard the shower nozzle begin to spurt, I decided against pancakes. He's been too keyed up before games to eat breakfast since the season began, I recalled with concern. Settling down on the couch with a bowl of oatmeal, I grabbed the T.V. remote and clicked on ESPN's SportsCenter. The catchy tune rang throughout the house, "Ta, da, da…Ta, da, da!" Gliding through the hallway wrapped only in a towel and still dripping with water, John came to a sudden stop. Turning his head, he peered intensely into my eyes and pronounced, "Aint nothing like Game Day, Shannon. Get'cha game face on." Then he walked away.

Excitement, anticipation and adrenaline took their powerful hold on the coach. Gone were the half-closed eyelids of the past week. The Monday through Saturday scrubby facial hair had been replaced by a neatly trimmed goatee. Even last Sunday's excruciatingly painful loss to our biggest rival was gone and buried.

It's game day, people. Winning is all that matters now.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat," I asked as he plucked the laminated play sheet from his leather bag and studied it, again.

I hope we win today, I thought to myself as I scooped out the remaining mouthfuls of oatmeal. The team has lost the past three in a row. No matter how much he loves his job - and love it he must to set his alarm for 3:30 am day after day - there's no denying it, losing just sucks. Not only for the dejected and frustrated coach, but for his family.

It's only after the losses pile up that I start to feel especially resentful of his job. "Why does he need to spend SO much time at the office? It's not working anyway," I think sarcastically. Then, listening as your team's lackluster performance is mercilessly bashed in the media is not much fun either. Of course, every NFL coach's wife knows that the more losses that occur, the further away teams drift from the playoffs. And playoffs mean extra cash for her family, like thousands of dollars more.

John was surely not sharing any of these negative thoughts as he charged, head held high, out of the house. I watched him from the porch as he opened the door of his company car. The routine is always the same; he places the leather bag onto the passenger seat, pulls on his seatbelt, then slips in The One and Only pre-game CD. As the Nissan throbs with bass, John's face becomes a stony mask.

Overcoming key challenges, executing plays and finding the will to win consumed the coach as he backed down the driveway. "Good Luck!" I bellowed over James Hetfield's screaming lyrics. "And kick some (insert team of the week) ass!" I added.

As I tightened the sash to my robe, and walked toward the house, I was thinking how grateful I was that my partner was one of the few of us who is living his dream.

Shannon O'Toole will soon publish a book on life in the NFL. Click here for more.