Before 2020, football season created its own rhythm in our home, {{first_name | friend}}.
It wasn’t just about the New York Giants—though they were always the team. It was about Sunday unfolding a particular way: The anticipation before kickoff. The highs and lows of watching the game together. The way the living room slowly filled with energy while food came together in the kitchen.
My very first experience watching the Giants live is etched permanently in my memory. It was a brutal December afternoon, right after Christmas, and freezing cold. I hadn’t dressed nearly well enough for the weather. (A rookie mistake.) Somewhere along the way, someone spilled hot coffee down my back. Shortly after, another person spilled beer. By the end of it all, I was wet, shivering, and completely miserable.
That day sealed the deal for me. I decided I would only attend live games before November—and otherwise, I was perfectly content watching football from the warmth of my living room, wrapped in dry clothes, with good food and better company.
And that’s where the real ritual lived.
What I realize now is that football was never the ritual.
Floyd was.
I watched because I loved sharing that space with him: the excitement, the commentary, the way he patiently taught me the game. He made it special every single time. He cooked food inspired by the teams playing, turning Sundays into something intentional and celebratory. Even when the score didn’t go our way, the day still felt full.
When we first started dating, I’ll admit, football wasn’t exactly my passion. I used to tease him that I just enjoyed watching men in tights. (Their behinds were impressive.) That always made him laugh. And somewhere between the jokes and the teasing, I fell in love with what football gave us—time, connection, shared excitement, and a table that always felt welcoming.
After Floyd, that ritual almost disappeared.
I’ve watched football since, and I’ve enjoyed it—but it’s different. Because what I miss isn’t the game itself. I miss the way it held us together in that shared space. The easy companionship. The joy of sharing food, laughter, and emotion around something so ordinary, and yet so meaningful.
Rituals change when the people we love are no longer physically beside us. Some fade. Some soften. And some live on quietly, carried in memory rather than routine.
This month, I’ve been thinking about how rituals don’t vanish—they transform. They remind us of love that was lived fully, joy that was shared generously, and moments that mattered more than we realized at the time.
And maybe that, too, is a ritual worth honoring.
With love,
Barkha