Punt, Pass, Propose

By Courtney Conover

Love — a wildly misunderstood although highly desirable malfunction of the heart which weakens the brain, causes eyes to sparkle, cheeks to glow, blood pressure to rise and the lips to pucker.

~Author Unknown

I didn't want to go. It wasn't that I was disinterested, more like disheartened. I was twenty-seven, single, and could see a pattern developing: Girl meets guy, girl gets to know guy, girl is introduced to guy's index of neurosis, girl remains single.

But being the hopeless (okay, relentless) romantic that I am, I truly wanted to believe that this evening would indeed be different. A week prior I had met a book publisher named Marian, who, during our chance encounter, had sworn that she knew the perfect guy for me after talking with me for no more than fifteen minutes. Marian, a self-professed yenta who unabashedly boasted that her first two matchmaking efforts had led to the altar, then produced a photo of her with two former NFL football players, one of whom was the very recognizable (and very married) Detroit Lions Hall of Fame running back Barry Sanders. The other was one of Marian's clients, who also happened to be one of Sander's offensive linemen.

"This is Scott," Marian said as she pointed to the tall (and, yes, handsome) gentleman on the right. "You guys will be good together." Marian spoke with both authority and compassion, as if I had no say in the matter, yet it would be for my own good. I gave a meek protest. A pompous athlete was the last thing I needed, but Marian wouldn't hear of it.

"Hush," she interrupted. "He's different. His foundation is holding a strolling dinner next Friday to raise money for children's literacy. Put on a nice dress. Come. It'll be fun."

I didn't know how to decline.

A week later, I arrived at the entrance of Somerset Collection, a high-end shopping center that would serve as the site of the fundraiser. I rooted around in my purse for a tube of lip gloss, a blatant attempt at stalling. The party was in full swing and the cacophony of guests mingling amid the sounds of smooth jazz was audible from the sidewalk. I stalled some more and proceeded to check my cell phone for any text messages. Not that I was expecting any.

This was absurd. I'd ripped off Band-Aids faster than this. Realizing that I could stay out here until my toes froze or I could act like an adult and face the music — and my yenta, for that matter — I braced myself and went in.

Marian was the first person I laid eyes on, and she wasted no time getting to the nitty-gritty. "You're here," she said, lifting her glass of merlot. She wore a bright red dress and an even brighter smile. I tucked my purse under my armpit and ran my hands down the front of my white and gold gown. "C'mon," she said and grabbed my hand.

I saw Scott before he saw me. He was huddled (no pun intended) around a handful of gentlemen who were so tall and broad, they could have easily given the Pittsburgh Steelers' Steel Curtain a run for their money. One of them gave Scott a nudge, and Scott turned to face me. Clad in a perfectly tailored classic black tuxedo, he was even more beautiful than I had recalled from the photo, and for a split second, I was convinced that my knees had turned to Jell-O.

It all happened so fast: Scott's pals got lost, Marian formally introduced us, and then she disappeared, too. Out of nowhere, a waiter deposited a glass of white wine in my hand. I took a sip — much too dry — and set it down on a nearby end table. Scott and I engaged in polite, rudimentary chatter, the details of which danced over my head like clouds in the sky. The next thing I knew Scott and I had photographers in our face. "Mr. Conover, we'd like to get a photo of you and your girlfriend, please," said the lead photographer of one of Metro Detroit's premier lifestyle magazines.

Both immensely flattered and utterly embarrassed, I glanced up at Scott to gauge his reaction. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and smiled for the camera. And then something totally unpredictable happened: I relaxed. The rest of the evening was a mix of effusive laughter, fine chocolate, and a sense of wonderment I had yet to experience on a first date.

At the end of the night, Scott summoned me into Mont Blanc pen boutique, an event sponsor. "Here, try this pen," he said with a coy smile. He handed me the Meisterstück he had received as a gift from the company. "Why don't you write down your phone number?"

And then it started. A real, genuine... wait for it... relationship. Scott had returned to his home state of New Jersey after retiring from the Lions, so we did the long distance thing for about three years. It was hardly stressful, I think, because we knew this was it. The real McCoy.

It's funny how things come full circle. That's precisely what happened nearly two years after we'd met. Scott flew in for a Sunday afternoon Detroit Lions charity luncheon that was to be held at a hotel half a mile down the road from Somerset Collection. While we were en route, I looked to my right and saw one of Scott's former teammates driving in the next lane.

"Look, it's George!" I said. "He must be on his way to the lunch, too." Scott's jaw tightened, and he hit the gas. Hard. That was my first inclination that something wasn't right. The second, in hindsight, was that George was not wearing a suit — or even a nice shirt — but an I've-been-working-in-the-yard-all-day-type tank top. The third was that Scott turned left at the light — the opposite direction of the hotel — and right into the parking lot of Somerset Collection. But this time Scott quelled my suspicion by stating that we were stopping by Mont Blanc before the luncheon so he could get his Meisterstück cleaned and ready to go for the autographs he'd sign at the lunch, which seemed plausible.

But it was all a ruse.

We entered the boutique hand in hand and walked right up to the counter. Scott then pulled the pen and a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. He handed the pen to the store's associate and the piece of paper to me. I stared at it in disbelief: It was the paper I had written my phone number on the night we met. I stepped away from the counter to look up at Scott, but he wasn't towering over me like usual because he was on bended knee.

"Courtney..." he began. "Will you marry me?"

Time stood still. I couldn't believe my ears, I couldn't believe that I didn't see this coming, and, most of all, I couldn't believe my good fortune.

I was unable to move, but, thankfully, I was able to say what I felt: "Yes."

Never before — and not since — has an impromptu trip to the mall been so exhilarating.

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