Five Yards Equals A First Down...Right?

Yes, I honestly used to believe that it was an accumulation of five yards on that green turf that equaled a first down. Of course, that was a few months after I actually understood what a "down" WAS. I'm not sure how the daughter of a head football coach manages to be so unaware of seemingly simple rules. Perhaps it stems from the day when I was six years old and caught in the middle of an eighth-grade boys' basketball scrimmage. Needless to say I had a knot on the top of my head where the orange ball almost twice my size pummeled me when the game got a little rougher than I expected. Ever since that incident I've been a little standoffish to things concerning balls. Take that how you will.
Below I've related a few funny stories about my "blond moments," I suppose, concerning my least favorite subject next to math - sports.

Nothing makes a girl hunt for a conversation starter more than a hunky boy. Such was my dilemma several years ago when I attended my first professional sporting event. The Braves were playing at Turner Field in the ATL, and I went with my church youth group. I arrived at the church and quickly scanned the group for my current crush - SCORE! Those baby blues sparkled in the sunlight as he flashed a grin at me; every girl can relate to my ecstatic joy when I was placed in a carpool with him and his hot friend - AND I got to sit in the middle!
So, game. I believe the Braves played the Padres. In my defense I had NO IDEA about baseball - even less than football, which was already next to nothing. The only thing I remember about baseball in highschool was Tony Bellew in those TIGHT pants and Katie explaining that the net was there to catch stray balls. I didn't believe her, however, until the first foul ball would have given me a concussion had the net been absent.
But here I am, getting off track. I used my small knowledge of baseball combined with a mean flirty blink and sheepish grin to keep my crush chatting with me the entire game. He was a photographer and I also feigned being able to get a good shot so he would offer to help me; he did, and I'm pretty sure I framed the picture he took...of the baseball field. Towards the end of the game I had to pee so badly my bladder was threatening to kill my family and burn down my house should I wait any longer. I just knew if I got up my seat next to him would be unavailable when I returned. Alas, it was, but thankfully it was near the end of the game. The Braves beat the Padres but of the exact score I am less sure. Like I said, my attention was - not surprisingly - spent elsewhere.

Seat 1C. Cute? Yes. His tow-colored mop curled impishly about his ears, highlighting his hazel eyes and warm mouth. He grinned at me, his teeth dazzling – I’ll give him that. His pink shirt was pitted with holes which resembled a mouse in his laundry, and his khaki shorts were faded but comfortable looking. Still, nothing to write home about. But, you ask, aren’t I doing just that? Ah, yes, but you see, this story is a bit more interesting than just another pretty face.
I officially met my first “famous” person.
He asked for a Diet Coke…something about a British accent gets me every time. Owners of such an accent could call me a warty, frog-faced dog and somehow it would still sound endearing. But, I digress.
Through a course of events, he made his way to the galley to ask for a refill to top off his drink. He stayed to chat, intrigued, I’m sure, by my enthralling beauty. Okay, wake up, Meredith. In reality, he wanted to know about our job, how exciting it was, which entitled us to ask about his. He meandered around the question, prolonging our conversation and inevitably making me fall more in love with his adorable accent. Finally, we got the answer we were searching for, “I’m actually going to Boston for work…I’m in the PGA.”
Now, before I go any further, let me apologize in advance to any golf fans. I do not – nor ever will – take an interest in or watch the sport for leisure. My next comment was a serious lapse of common sense which caused me to greatly question my powers of observation. I understand this.
“So,” I asked. “You’re good at golf?”
Sara, my friend who was flying the trip with me, looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just insulted George W. Bush by asking who he was.
“Meredith,” she said, with a tone of YOU IDIOT, “he’s in the PGA.”
I think I started looking for a hole somewhere that I could crawl into. Sheepishly, I apologized for my obviously stupid comment, but he only grinned at me and said, “Yeah, you might say I’ve got a talent for hitting balls.”
He proceeded to tell us about his life as a golf star; all the while, I still had no idea who this man was. When he got to the story about renting an entire race track in Paris for him and his friends to race their race cars, I kind of got the idea that maybe he made a lot of money.
“What’s your favorite city?” he asked me.
“Seattle,” I answered in the next second. “But I couldn’t afford to live there right now. Maybe one day.”
“But why not? Just get you a sugar-daddy and you could have it all. Let’s see…you could be with Bill Gates!” He suggested emphatically.
My face must have produced his next answer – “Oh my god, could you imagine, shaggin’ Bill Gates?”
At which, of course, we all burst into embarrassed laughter.
At one point, he returned to his seat to retrieve a paper – I hurriedly checked the manifest to see his name, making a note to Google him later.
Ian Poulter. According to his website stats, he is ranked twenty-seven in the world, making close to $10,000,000 this year alone. He is also the famous wearer of the “crazy outfits,” according to our pilots who later found out he’d been on our flight. Indeed he did own quite a few outrageous pairs of pants - from ones sporting the American Flag to Fleur de Lis, even snakeskin and Celtic plaid paraded throughout his eccentric wardrobe.
At the time Mr. Poulter was telling us of his plan to launch a new line of golf-wear for fellow players. I met him about a year ago, and according to his website, in April of this year he launched his line world wide in seventeen countries and his designs are being worn by young golf stars everywhere. Not that I'm an advert for him at all, lol.
It was quite the experience.

Seattle, Washington – a place near and dear to my heart. As I sat in the gate area waiting to board the flight I was to take with my best friend, we both gasped and spotted tall, dark, and handsome at ten o’clock. Ironically that was the time of day as well. As my friend and I were standby, we unfortunately sat on pins and needles through the two hour delay, not even sure we would make it to Seattle that night.
Sighing with relief when the gate agent finally called our names, I boarded the plane and made my way to the last row of seats. Getting ready to sigh inwardly as I realized I was – of course – trapped in the middle, my sigh turned into an, “Oh…” as I saw the handsome stranger in the seat next to me. Flashing him one my biggest grins, I settled into the once-loathed middle seat with a smile of satisfaction. Well, as the saying goes, when God closes a door, he always gives you a piece of hot-ass man candy to drool over. Or something like that.
Casually I made conversation whilst staring into his velvet browns.
“Yes, I live in Seattle.”
I was almost certain I heard him ask me to marry him and move there, too, but you know how loud the plane engines are, so I could be wrong. Still further research landed me in the middle of a foreign playing field – sports. Pun intended. “Yeah, I actually play for the Seattle Seahawks.”
Seahawks, seahawks…Is that a bird? I’d never heard of it before. I recall my mother once mentioning there was no such thing. What was worse, I had NO idea what sport this team belonged to.
I realized I was probably staring at him dumbly, so I smiled and nodded, “Wow, that’s so cool!”
But like Little George Washington, I cannot tell a lie, and so I piped up a moment later.
“I’m sorry that I have to ask you this, but what sport do you play?”
Twisting my face into what I hoped appeared to be remorse at so indelicately wounding his pride, I was relieved to see him smile back assuredly and say, “It’s okay, the Seahawks are actually a football team.” He seemed to enjoy the fact that someone wouldn’t be plaguing him for stats the entire five hour flight.
I noticed he’d brought along a DVD, The 13th Warrior, starring the notable Antonio Banderas. I recalled the day during senior year in Mrs. Harper’s joke of an English class when the famous substitute, Mrs. Brown, was surreptitiously duped into believing that our teacher actually left Monty Python and the Holy Grail as our movie assignment as opposed to a film concerning our current literature piece, Beowulf - enter The 13th Warrior, which I never chanced to see.
Smiling inwardly I mentioned that it was a good movie – in hopes, of course, that I would be invited to watch it with him on his DVD player. One heartbeat later he queried, “You wanna join me?” as he held up an extra set of headphones.
Did I ever!
When the film ended I could only hope he wouldn’t judge me by my apparent lack of taste in movies. The 13th Warrior was one of the most corny, horribly-acted, lame-scripted movies I’d seen in a very long time. And he actually thought I LIKED the movie! That was probably worse than him finding out I fibbed about having seen it..
As the story obviously goes, Mr. Seahawk didn’t ask for my hand in marriage or offer to sail a thousand seas for a token of my love, but I mustn’t give up hope.
Note to self: destroy all copies of The 13th Warrior to save thousands of girls potential embarrassment.