But what if Da Bears were all 14 inches tall?

My first sign that something wasn’t quite right in our relationship was several months ago, as we were driving home from having dinner with my parents at Al’s. I had offhandedly mentioned something about football, something about the Bears/Packers rivalry, and his voice changed instantly. Even the expression on his face was one I’d never seen before. He went from being Hot Guy to being a Superfan, giving me a play-by-play of the entire 1985 Bears season. It was funny for a few sentences, but then it was frightening. I learned to never bring up football in conversation. I began to dread football season’s approach.

Our first football viewing experience together was at my parents’ house, a Monday night Packer game in which the Pack was annihilated. Hot Guy was polite, he did not taunt my diehard Packer fan father or his friends. I was so relieved. I thought to myself, “Oh, he’s a Bears fan, but he’s not one of THOSE Bears fans.”

I maintained this naïve belief right up until Sunday, September 24th, 2006. That date is recorded on my calendar as The Day the Brainwashing Began. Someday in the future, as I see my reflection in the mirror, my orange hair and my blue-painted face, and I wonder how long it took for me to become that sort of person, I’ll be able to look it up.

I am not a football fan, per se. I enjoy football because of the parties that go along with it. I enjoy cooking for a football crowd. I rarely pay attention to the game. My history as a football viewer began with my father’s team, the Packers. When I was married to Peter Pan, I was subjected to weekly Saints games. I rebelled against my father and Pete, who both expected me to declare my allegiance to their respective teams. I browsed NFL.com and decided I was a Tennessee Titans fan. If I had to pick a team, I looked best in baby blue. Once I became single again, it didn’t really matter. I didn’t watch football at all for several years. I no longer needed to feign allegiance to the Titans to avoid the Packers/Bears/Saints/Whatever discussions happening around me.

Things have changed.

Sunday the 24th was the first time Hot Guy and I watched a Bears game together. We were in my apartment, Hot Guy seated on my couch with me curled up, my head in his lap. As often happens during football games, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up, I could hear a soft whisper in my ear. It was not Hot Guy’s voice, but instead the voice of a Superfan. “Da Bears,” it said, “Sausage.” A pause, then “Ditka. Beer.” I stirred a little, pretended to go back to sleep, and the voice began again. “Da Bears. Knockwurst. Ditka. Da Bears.”

I opened an eye, expecting him to be ashamed that I had caught him in his subliminal shenanigans. But no, he was not guilty at all. He was proud of himself.

This weekend in Champaign, he made several comments about the blue and orange Illini sweatshirt I was wearing and how good it would look on me at a Bears game. It began to sink in that this is not a passing thing for us, that the Bears might easily mean more to him than I do. Born and raised in the Chicago suburbs, I guess I can’t be too surprised that his blood runs orange, that he confuses Ditka for a family member. But do I really have to be on board with this in order to maintain my status in his life?

I started thinking back to the summer, when Hot Guy followed me around to various race tracks and baseball games and echoed the sentiments I had so subtly drilled into his brain. “That bitch,” he replied when Danica Patrick’s name came up in conversation. “Boooo,” he said under his breath as Davey Ray took the track. Hot Guy had made the effort, not just attending races with me, but also supporting me in my irrational hatred of certain drivers and unquestioning love of others. (Although, as a sidenote, the Casey Kasum impressions following every mention of Kasey Kahne’s name are getting a little old.)

His Bears Brainwashing tactics are brilliant and subtle. While the game is on, he rewards me with affection like a puppy earning treats. With each first down, I get a caress, a pat on the head, or a hand holding mine. Touchdowns lead to celebrations involving kisses. He is so sweet and loving during Bears games that I find myself unconsciously hoping the Bears will succeed, putting a smile on Hot Guy’s face, a kiss on my lips. He is a tricky one.

So I guess the conundrum I’m left with is this – must I be a football fan? Must I choose between my father and brother’s team and my boyfriend’s team? Should I continue to fake having my own favorite team? This isn’t baseball (Go Yankees!) or NASCAR (wooo hoo #9) or a sport that I actually care about, so what’s the big deal? Is it so wrong that I play along, that I be a Superfan every Sunday, because it makes my man happy? Is it only selling out when you actually care?

In my dating past, I’ve been mostly concerned about compatibilities of religion, politics, career and life goals. I never thought the first issue in which Hot Guy would try to coerce my opinion would be football. Outside of sports preferences, we fit together so beautifully.

We fit like blue and orange. Da Bears and Ditka. Sausage and beer.

My mind is weak.