Last night, Genuine. and I were talking about sports (well, I was talking about it and she was listening politely, rather) and we started wondering what level of injury she would have to sustain in order for me to leave the game with her. The conversation went (roughly) as follows:
ME.: Wait, who's playing?
GENUINE.: Um, Brett Farve.
ME.: The Jets? Okay, what kind of injury do you have?
GENUINE.: Let's say I've been shot.
ME.: Someone shot you at a football game? Who would do that?
GENIUNE.: Winston Churchill?
ME.: A time-traveling Winston Churchill comes to a football game so he can shoot you.
GENUINE.: In the stomach.
ME.: In the stomach.
ME.: Who are the Jets playing?
GENUINE.: Um, the Packers.
ME.: Holy crap, not only can that matchup only happen in the Super Bowl, but that would be the queen mother of all grudge matches. Holy crap.
GENUINE.: I'm making this difficult for you on purpose, you realize.
ME.: It's working. Wow. Holy crap.
GENUINE.: Did I mention the score is tied with five minutes left?
ME.: Geeeeaaaaah! The score is tied?
GENUINE.: And I've been shot in the stomach.
ME.: Oh man. And it's the Super Bowl?
This went on. We started adding new hypotheticals. Would I leave the game if the EMTs said she would be alright and there was nothing more I could do? What if she was injured playing running back for the Jets? The Packers? Ultimately I decided I'd have to leave the game, but it wasn't an easy choice. (I mean, it's the Super Bowl! Come on! How did I even get Super Bowl tickets in the first place?)