I have a friend who says that football isn’t a metaphor for war; it’s the story of a man trying to find his freedom. I’m not sure I know what he means but I suspect he’s right. Whenever I hear football compared to war it bothers me. I’m not sure we should compare anything to war. Except war. That’s the list.
I’m really looking forward to this Sunday. At 1:00pm, there’s Jets at Bills. One of those teams is going to lose, so, that should be fun. I’m torn. I’d rather not play the Jets coming off a loss. You cannot underestimate the “Who Needs It More?” factor. Still, it just feels wrong rooting for the Jets.
At 4:15pm, the Giants come to Gillette. By 7:30pm I should know something fundamental about the 2011 edition of the New England Patriots. I’ll believe they can make a playoff run or I’ll console myself with the knowledge that I get to watch Tom Terrific play quarterback on a weekly basis at least through Christmas and New Year’s Day.
The loss to the Steelers was disappointing but I wasn’t ready to wrap myself in a worn wool blanket and wander around downtown with a torch fashioned from a bent stick and a Ben Roethlisberger jersey torn into strips and soaked in kerosene asking random strangers, “Why has God forsaken us?”
Maybe after this Sunday’s game…
The NFL season is like an Icelandic saga in which our heroes sometimes get their asses kicked by the draugr before finally vanquishing their shadowy foes. Or miss the playoffs on a tie-breaker. As the poet once observed, “heroes often fail.” Of course, it’s a lot easier to take that ass-kicking when you know in the end you will marry the prettiest girl in the village and feast on the finest of meats and cheeses.
Maybe after this Sunday’s game I’ll pop one of those championship season DVDs into the Blu-ray while I tuck in to a plate filled with roast chicken, baked potatoes and peas.
A loss feels like a movie with an ending you hated. You’re disgusted, pissed off, you want your money back – you want two hours of your life back – so you trash the writer, director and actors on your Facebook page. Who cares how many Oscars they may have won in the past? Who cares what the critics have to say? For the love of all that’s good and true, for justice and puppies and Christmas, will someone please stop Lars von Trier before he makes another movie?
Where was I?
I hated the ending to last Sunday’s movie/game but that’s over; time to move on, time to let go. It’s time, instead, to once again let myself become emotionally dependent on the outcome of an event I have absolutely no control over. I should know better by now but I will once again bet the weekly mortgage on my psyche on my pigskin paladins this Sunday.
Why do I give up my happiness to something so arbitrary as a sporting event?
Because a 35-20 win feels so good.
I’m just going to have to keep a good thought…
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