A Different Kind of Fall

October is one of my favorite times of the year because it offers a trifecta of sense-sational events. It's when you can smell summer changing to fall, see the leaves shedding the long year from their branches, and hear the sound of a ref's whistle as if he were telling you that football season is in full swing.

This used to be one of the greatest times of the year for me. Going apple picking with the friends or family I dragged to the orchard on terms of nostalgia, pumpkin carving, and lazy Sundays watching football. This year, because of an off season trade from New England to Chicago, I've had to live vicariously through the Facebook statuses of those who have taken trips to the orchard and of those who are still able to watch the Patriots every Sunday (that means you, New Englanders, keep those statuses coming!).

(Photo: Dad, Megan and I apple picking many years ago... Mom was the photographer and Sean was too cool.)

The cooler October weather promotes that there's-nothing-better-than-this feeling, inviting you to sit around in sweats with a laptop or a notebook doing some work while watching men run around in tights chasing a pigskin. This year, that feeling is diminished for me because those men I'm watching aren't my beloved Patriots; they are Bears, Packers and Bengals (oh my!). I guess I could venture out and find a bar to cheer on Brady and his Bunch, but seriously, who wants to go to a bar at noon? And I can't do my homework at the same time OR wear sweatpants. I've settled on following the Red Sox, Bruins and Patriots scores via Boston.com's "at the stadium" blogs. And those Facebook statuses.

Football just isn't the same for me anymore. Being in a city filled with fans from many different teams blurs my passion for the sport. People love the Bears here, a team that's not even in the same league as the AFC Patriots. There aren't even any rivals around here to care enough about my hometown team to trash talk once in a while. I can't believe I'm about to admit this, but hearing people hate on your team is better than nothing at all. I still get to hold on to the Red Sox because fans of the AL White Sox care enough to throw $6 ballpark hotdogs at Boston fans. See this earlier post in case you missed that story.

But what makes me most sad about the changes I've undergone by switching camps, and something that can't be solved by a Facebook status, online blog or local bar, is that I can't watch football games with my Dad anymore. I used to watch them with him nearly every Sunday. I'd drive home, do laundry, enjoy some of mom's home cooking and lounge on the couch talking shop with my pop. Now 900 miles away, I can call and he can give me a play-by-play of the game, but it's not the same kind of bonding experience. I can't yell at the refs with him because I don't know what happened, nor can I curse a wide receiver with slippery fingers because I didn't see him drop the pass to know if he should have caught it or not. If it was Ben Watson I can guess that he probably should have caught it, but other than that I'm useless.

My Dad and I used to watch the Patriots together way before they were good and before Tom Brady was even tossing passes as a Wolverine. I remember vividly watching a game together in 1996, a match up between the Patriots and the then expansion Jaguars, I'm pretty sure it was the AFC Championship. I discovered my love of sports by listening to the Bruins on the radio with my Dad as he worked in his basement workshop (we didn't have that fancy cable). He coached me on my softball teams for years and taught me some hard lessons (for a 12-year-old that is) because he never played me just because I was his daughter. To me, sports aren't just a hobby or a career aspiration. Sports are something I will always associate with my Dad. It's our "thing." (Photo: My Dad and I toasting to my 21st birthday)

Some changes are easier to deal with than others. The changing of the leaves and the changing of the seasons are aesthetically pleasing. The changing of a wardrobe can get complicated. But those things are mastered after years of habitual practice. The changing of the way football Sundays feel to me was not something for which I was prepared. Each Sunday brings on a pang of loneliness and homesickness as it is a reminder of what I have sacrificed by moving, like an athlete who gives up being a fan favorite in order to move to a team in playoff contention.

I guess I just have to learn how to make it work and transfer those feelings in a different manner now that I am a time zone away. Or just learn to enjoy going to a bar at 10 a.m. to get a good seat for the Patriots game. But one thing's for sure: next time I am home, I won't take those Sundays watching football with my Dad for granted. I just hope it isn't a bye week.