First Downton and Ten

I know that sports plays a huge part in most American’s lives, and I know that there are legions of women who adore professional sports, but I grew up in a household with two sisters who didn’t and an artist father who could take it or leave it.  So, Monday night was Little House on the Prairie night for us.  Once our homework was finished, we cozied into our nightgowns, grabbed the tissue box, and nestled onto the couch with Mom.  For the next hour our petty lives fell away as we immersed ourselves in the dramatic lives of the Ingalls family and the trials and tribulations that gripped Walnut Grove on a weekly basis.  I suppose this seemingly harmless tradition was little more than a gateway drug for what would eventually feed into our daily dose of General Hospital, but we didn’t care.  When a wagon was pulled from the mud, we cheered; when a crop was lost, we moaned.  For ten years we laughed and cried with Half Pint, wishing and wanting everything she ached for.  Her life became ours and we traded gladly.

Fast forward to our current family get-togethers.  My father has passed, I’m divorced, and my other sister is single.  That leaves only one brother-in-law-- who has three daughters—as the sole male in a house for a long holiday weekend with seven women who can take or leave professional sports.  To be fair, we let him watch his game.  We hear him cheer in solitude when the good team gets the points and sigh in frustration when the bad guys get a win.  Sometimes, in passing, we see him leap out of his chair, fists pumping in the air when his team wins, clapping to punctuate his victory as if he were watching gladiators at battle—as if he were in the battle himself.  But the rest of the time we commandeer the TV and lately we’ve immersed ourselves just as thoroughly in DVDs of our own choosing.  Yes, Downton Abbey.

Like a professional televised sporting event, we get viscerally amped-up for viewing.  Everyone claims her favorite chair and various snacks are put out on display.  As the opening credits unfold, we turn down lights and hush the chatters, eager with anticipation, ready for uncertainty.  Anna shows early signs of being a likely candidate for MVP, whereas Daisy is the clear favorite as rookie.  Lady Mary is clearly not bringing her A game to find a husband and worthy air and Lady Edith is just making poor decisions with every play—Mr. Carson should totally bench her.  Lord Grantham gets character penalties for infidelity, Mr. Bates emerges in the second half as a leader in his field, and everyone loves to hate Thomas and Mrs. O’Brien.  Thankfully, Lady Sybil, Mrs. Hughes and Mathew are holding the team together with strong character and smart choices.  Someone has to.

Beginning with the first show of the first season, we were entranced, but we also felt a little defeated.  Anna kept gaining ground with Mr. Bates, only to be blocked at every move.  She bobbed and weaved well enough, but someone or some circumstance was always running interference.  Neither of them could seem to gain any ground.  Once, when a clandestine kiss was foiled at the last minute, our viewership of seven roared in unison.  “Noooo!” we all shouted at the screen, our hands up to our heads.  “C’mon, Mister Bates, you’re not trying hard enough!  She’s right there!  All you have to do is lean in, for crying out loud!”  And so it went.  When Lord Grantham stole a kiss from the housemaid, we hissed and “ooooooed” at his penalty.  Would this be a penalty that would cost him the game with Cora?  I’m still undecided about Cora as to her value as a team player.  Sometimes I’m beguiled by her flexibility, her tolerance, and her steadfast loyalty to her daughters and sometimes she plays as if she’s just been woken up from a nap.  C’mon Cora, snap out of it—get in the game.

Everyone wants her favorite players to do better, to make the pass, to win.  When, at long last, Anna and Mister Bates did finally come together in a tender kiss, our excitement got the better of us just as any fan’s would.  Without direction, each one of us lept up from our chairs, fist-pumping and shouting, “Yay!” while jumping up and down in perfectly choreographed glee.  We cheered so loud that you would have heard it had you been walking your dog outside.  In fact, you would have assumed we were watching sports.  And in a way we were, we were watching our version of sport, immersed in a world of victory and loss, of small gains and obstacles-- of triumph and hope.  After what seemed like seventeen hundred hours in a row of viewing nirvana-- tension, longing and desire--our team had won.  Team Go-After-What-You-Want had scored a major victory.  Team You-Deserve-To-Be-Happy had advanced us in the standings.  Team Hope had beat out the defending champs, Team Cynical.  We were going to the semis with Team Love.