Keep the Stats

As football season comes to a close, I’m still entertained by the introductions, especially the part where height and weight are announced with complete confidence and no visible concern. The camera cuts to a man built like a refrigerator, and a voice confidently declares his height, weight, and position, as if this is information the rest of us were simply dying to confirm.

I appreciate the confidence of it. The certainty. The public commitment to numbers.

It also makes me deeply grateful that I do not work in a profession where my physical stats are announced when I arrive.

I imagine what that would sound like in my office.

“Coming in at five foot eight, one hundred and thirty-five pounds,” the announcer says. Generously. Stop laughing. You didn’t think I was going to tell you my real weight, did you? “Here is Stefani, the accountant, entering from the east hallway with a stack of checks from the daily mail delivery.”

The camera pans to me, clutching a stack of mail, wearing shoes chosen for comfort rather than speed, nodding politely like this is a perfectly reasonable introduction. Somewhere behind me, the copier jams.

In football, the numbers are part of the spectacle. They help you understand what you’re looking at. This guy is big. That guy is fast. This one should not be allowed to run directly at you. It all makes sense.

In an office setting, the numbers would feel less helpful and far more personal.

“Coming in at a solid middle-of-the-road height and a weight we will not be discussing, Stefani approaches the desk. She has coffee. She needs more coffee.”

There would be no applause. Just polite acknowledgment from coworkers who are suddenly very aware of their own posture.

I picture the announcer following me throughout the day, narrating things that do not require commentary.

“She’s heading into the boss’s office with payroll numbers. This is a serious moment.”

“She’s circling back to her desk after realizing she forgot her glasses. Again.”

“Strong form on that sigh.”

Football players wear pads. Helmets. Protection. They are introduced before doing something physically demanding in front of thousands of people who will judge every move they make.

Accountants arrive carrying lunch bags and emotional baggage, expected to perform mental gymnastics quietly and without fanfare. No one needs to know our stats. We would prefer anonymity.

If my weight were announced every time I walked into work, I would consider remote employment exclusively. Possibly witness protection.

I asked my husband if he ever thought about this while watching football.

“No,” he said. “But now I will.”

He chuckles every time I giggle at the weight comments. “Two hundred and sixty pounds!” he repeats, just to make sure I heard it.

The thing is, the players look unfazed. They stand there while their measurements are broadcast to the world, nodding like, yes, this is correct, thank you for noticing. There is something admirable about that level of acceptance. Or maybe they’ve just learned not to think about it too hard.

I try to imagine that level of confidence translating to my own job.

“Yes,” I would say, adjusting my chair, nervously. “These are my numbers. They fluctuate. Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

Then I would deposit the checks, answer emails, and quietly hope no one asks for a replay.

When the game continues and the announcer moves on to the next player, I relax again. I am anonymous. Unmeasured. Free to do my work without a running commentary on my dinner plans.

And that’s how I like it.

Football can keep its stats. I’ll keep my coffee… and I’m fine staying off the roster.

A little grace, a little grit, plenty of laughter,

~Stef