Oh yes---the Football. (I have decided that I will capitalize it. Much like Buster Bluth does with 'Army'. Because it just looms that large.) Today. . . (stage whisper) *IT BEGINS!!!*
Allow me to just go on record from the beginning of this little rant by saying that I DO NOT CARE FOR FOOTBALL. Not at all. Never have, never will. I harbor no ill will toward Football, I simply cannot get my head around the fascination with it. And I am no more in the market for a personal allegiance to a particular Football team than I am in the market for a new and improved brand of Jesus. So, and I am phrasing this as kindly as I know how: Take your 'Waaaaaar's and your 'Rooooooooll's to the house next door, because I won't *threaten* you with physical harm, but I may just locate the nearest broom and begin pummelling you with it. For real. Take it next door.
However, as I have lived my entire life (born and bred, folks, born and bred. Don't let the extensive vocabulary fool you =) in the South. . .and in Alabama, at that. . . this complete and utter distaste for all things Football has caused me no shortage of personal distress over the years. As any Alabamian knows, they really like for you to make your allegiance to a certain Football team known and logged by the age of 4. That gives you one year to acquaint yourself with the team and the traditions before school starts around the age of 5. Because once you start school, when the inevitable question is posed (and make NO DOUBT you WILL BE ASKED), generally by day 2 or 3: "Who're you for?" Well, by God, Billy Wayne, you'd BETTER HAVE A FREAKING ANSWER!!***
***Note: A quick footnote about this all-important question-- Playing dumb does NOT work. Don't even try it. I'm serious. A completely innocent "Whatever do you mean?" in response to the "Who're-you-for" question, uttered carelessly in first grade---(It was FIRST GRADE!!! HOW WAS I TO KNOW??!? WHO *ARE* ALL THESE FOOTBALL-CHILDREN?!?!!)--- will do nothing more than cause your schoolmates to raise their eyebrows, shamelessly mock you, and land you in the Special/Mildly Retarded category for the remainder of your public education. This is, of course, a middle-ground scenario. The worst-case scenario does not bear mentioning here. The best-case scenario, if for some reason you SHOULD decide to go this route, is that your classmates will eternally regard you with mild suspicion. . . .Kind of like the kid who transferred in from out of state in 2nd grade, dresses like she is from another planet, and has completely different ideas of what is cool and what is not. Get with the program, New Kid. Jelly-sandals are where it's at.
Enough about the Jellies. Moving on.
And please don't make the mistake of believing that my general lack of interest in the sport stems from a lack of understanding. Because you would be wrong.
Actually, it's kind of cute to think about, but in the course of my illustrious and oft-troubled love life, I do believe that every SINGLE boyfriend has at some point tried to educate me about the finer points and nuances of the game. How adorable. =) They thought that I didn't *care* about it simply because I didn't *understand* it. . . and they could not have been more wrong. It's sort of the same way with British comedy. People tend to assume that if you're not a fan, it's because you don't get it.
No, no, I can assure you--British comedy is very high-brow. Very subtle. Ministry of Silly Walks. I get it.
I just don't think it's funny.
Same with football. I get it. (To a degree.) But at some point during EVERY ONE of those kind (and informative!) monologues about the intricacies of Football, that one boyfriend or male-friend or another was kind enough to provide me with, in hopes of furthering both my education AND my usefulness, I tend to drift off with the faeries. . . I believe that this happens at roughly the same point that I drift off whenever someone has been foolish enough to try to explain to me exactly how a carburetor works. It's not something I do intentionally. Just, at some point, and for some reason, and let me stress that it is QUITE beyond my control, I stop listening and begin wondering why white chocolate is so much better than dark chocolate, or why Einstein's theory of relativity breaks down when you observe matter on a molecular level and why gravity seems to have no effect on these particles. . .
It's not something I'm proud of, but there you go.
And as a child I remember observing the adults around me AFTER the Football was over. I found it BEYOND curious that after the Football had happened, it appeared that whatever had taken place on that green field had the power to affect the moods of those around me.
(---*In my best Spock voice*---) Fascinating.
Those little men on the screen, should they not perform in a manner pleasing enough, actually had the power to ruin the day of the adults around me.
I just couldn't figure it out. . . To me, this would be like something that happened on Sesame Street having the power to make or break my day. But. . . well, I *did* cry when Mr. Hooper died, so maybe that's not the best example. . .
After a time, I found that the very best thing I could do when Football was happening was to curl up in an easy chair with a really good book, and let Eli Gold's voice lull me to sleep. (To this day, when Football is happening on the tv at our house, the announcers' voices always put me in a very relaxed and sleepy mood. . . they're kind of like preachers, that way.) And I'm not trying to brag, but I believe the entire Auburn football team owes me a debt of thanks, as my mid-game nap last season turned out to be their good luck charm. (You're welcome, guys.)
So in truth, I suppose it is strange that I actually *enjoy* Football season, but I do. I love it!
It is generally a marker that means the weather is starting to turn cooler--a sign that the worst heat of the summer is coming to an end. It is a time during the weekend when I *KNOW* that I can spend a couple of hours curled up on the couch with my husband (even if he is perched anxiously on one end of the couch, while I am embroiled in adventures in the deep forests of Middle Earth on the other).
And it is a season that is generally accompanied by all varieties of happy, greasy, comfort food: Sausage balls, little smokies, cheese dips, crockpot treasures, and any other artery-clogging delight your mind can conjure up.
I even like going to the games from time to time. . . Not so much because I have any emotional investment in the final score, but just because I like the pomp and excitement of the event itself. (And again---the food. Let us never forget the food. A hot dog never tastes as good as it does at a game, eaten on bleachers.)
So yes. I love football season. . . . I just don't really care for Football.
So give me a good book and some great snacks, and I'll be curled up with Michael for every game this season, and love every minute of it.
I would even be open to wearing the shirt of a particular team.
I'm not opposed to that.
So if someone wants to donate one, just let me know.
Just keep in mind---I would be less concerned with what team logo is on the front, and more concerned with how soft the fabric is =)