While we were watching the highlights, my wife, who’s a casual sports fan, saw that Ohio State had won.
“So do they go to the Rose Bowl?’’ she said.
“No, there’s a Big Ten championship game first.’’
“Who are they going to play? Are they going to play the Badgers?’’
She knows I’m a Badger.
“No, the Badgers are going to play Penn State.’’
“Penn State? What about Ohio State?’’
“I believe Ohio State is going to play for the national championship. But the Buckeyes didn’t qualify for the Big Ten championship.’’
“So does Michigan go to the Rose Bowl?’’
Here in the Midwest, the Rose Bowl is sort of like. . . heaven. Or Disney World. She’s been a couple of times—to Pasadena—and it lives up to its billing.
“No. Not sure where Michigan goes yet. They probably have to send the Big Ten champion to the Rose Bowl. Either the Badgers or Penn State.’’
By now, this is too much information. She’s firing up that Tiny House show—the one where people live in a trailer like ants, but it looks really cool.
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