It's that time of year again. It's a time when men all across the nation unite in rejoicing the advent of their favorite season of the year . football season. Ah, yes, the air is heavily laden with the aroma of testosterone.
I really don't understand the fascination. Twenty-two guys with the combined weight of a tugboat butt heads like a bunch of mutant billygoats while one tries to run off with a ball that looks like striped camel dung.
They do this for about fifteen seconds of every minute of the one-hour game, which takes almost three hours to play because they spend more time catching their breath than a chain-smoker chasing a rooster.
It's not hard to understand why, given the size of some of these guys. I've seen a few who couldn't get into my pickup truck with a prybar and a tub of grease. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but wearing an athletic supporter doesn't make you an athlete.
I guess the sport is good for teaching kids the value of teamwork. It warms my heart to see grown men congratulate one another by smacking their heads together. It's obvious they've run into the goal post a few times too many.
And the star of the game has a few strange habits as well. It starts with the way he gets the ball. The ball is on the ground, and the fattest guy on the team who can bend over without splitting the seat out of his pants is squatting over it.
The quarterback sneaks up behind him, puts his hands where the sun doesn't shine, and starts counting. Not that he can really count. "Twelve, twenty-two, twelve, seventeen, twelve, forty-four." Then he yells "Hut!" until the fat guy gets tired of having another man's hands on his butt and smacks him with the ball.
I can just imagine the first time a coach told a quarterback to do this. It was probably a punishment for throwing too many incomplete passes. I wonder how that conversation went?
"You want me to put my hands where?"
And think of the poor guy bending over the ball.
"You want him to put his hands where?"
Now if that doesn't bother you, think about this. A lot of quarterbacks, most notably the great Dan Marino, have this habit of licking their fingers before every play. Do I need to remind you where they were only a few seconds earlier?
With all these masochistic derelicts running around, you have to wonder about the poor place kicker. This is typically a Brazilian who's smaller than an anorexic jockey.
This guy gets my vote for bravery. How'd you like to be in his position, racing to kick a ball while eleven overweight maniacs try to run you down? Worse yet, how'd you like to be the little guy at shower time?
I don't deny that football is a popular sport, or that it can help teach kids some traditional values like fair play and teamwork. Who knows, a few of them may even learn to wash their hands before dinner.
Copyright 2001 Dave Glardon - All rights reserved
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