aw, crap. i like football.
In theory, I hate football. In practice, I watched almost four hours of football today. And enjoyed it.
The theory.
It's a ridiculous sport. From the shape of the "ball" to the cut of the uniforms, football just looks silly. And those "chains"? I have to roll my eyes a bit each time they trot out with those poofy orange sticks to measure for a first down. Because the location of the football generally depends on the "spot" from the official, couldn't "fourth and inches" usually just as aptly be labeled "ah, hell, they probably made it"? And don't even get me started on the copious patting of asses....
It's a violent sport. If the main objective of the game is to move the ball down the field, the second objective is to pound the tar out of whoever has the ball. Or whoever is between you and the ball. Or whoever is trying to get around you to get to the ball. Most of the players actually seem to roar like beasts when they complete a tackle. Maybe that sort of chest-thumping just reminds me way too much of the senseless aggressiveness that seems to plague so much of our country, from drivers succumbing to road rage to politicians invading foreign nations.
It's a boys' sport. This certainly isn't limited to football, but the only hope a woman has to be "involved" in the game is as a scantily-clad cheertart or as a trophy wife. That's probably my glitch with just about all professional team sports. And though it's gradually changing with women's basketball and soccer, it's never going to change with football. Little boys can grow up dreaming of football fame and fortune (or at least college scholarships). Little girls? Not so much.
The practice.
My dad loved football. So many of my fond memories of my dad involve Sundays and football. I remember watching games together when I was in elementary school. He'd have a pony bottle of beer, and he'd always let me have a sip when I asked, even though I'd always just screw up my face and say that it tasted gross. And when I got older and less interested in the games, I still got a kick out of listening to my dad grumping at the referees, coaches, and players. Oh, how he loved the Steelers. My dad's brother passed away this Thanksgiving. In a sympathy card to my auntie, I wrote that I hoped to take a little comfort in the thought that somewhere, my uncle and my dad were together again, yelling at the tv, enjoying the Steelers game. And even though I really don't believe in the possibility of such an afterlife, it's a nice thought, isn't it?
I grew up in Pittsburgh. The Steelers won four Super Bowls when I was a kid. I remember making black and gold construction paper decorations for our living room when they got into the playoffs in 1979. That team? Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, "Mean" Joe Greene, Lynn Swann, John Stallworth, Rocky Bleier, Mike Webster, Jack Lambert, Jack Ham, Mel Blount, Dwight White, coach Chuck Noll, owner Art Rooney ... I can still rattle off their names as easily as I can the names of my bazillion cousins (Irish Catholics, so many kids). I even still have the sheet music for the "Steeler Polka" that my fourth-grade band teacher gave us. Maybe I'll dust off my trumpet for the playoffs this year!
Football is so gay. Football has to be so excessively, stoopidly macho and homophobic, because it's so, so gay. And that? Cracks me up. Where else will you see so many big, beefy man-hands swatting so many snugly uniformed, tight little man-butts? Where are the quarterback's hands right before the center snaps the ball? Do they really have to grab onto each other and roll around on the turf for so long after the ball's been whistled dead? Mm-hmm. Some day, during the fourth quarter of a really tense game, after like 50 minutes of thrashing hard play, some defensive lineman and some offensive lineman are going to look across the line of scrimmage at each other and get so caught up in the adrenaline and the moment that they throw off their helmets and totally make out. I'm telling you, it's just a matter of time. And I hope I'm watching when it happens. (And I don't even like boys.) Whee!
The realization.
Watching and enjoying football is a way to happily remember my dad. It's one small, comfortable way to stay connected to him and his memory. So, today, on the anniversary of my father's death, I think I've finally learned to just accept the fact that my heart wants to love football as much as my brain wants to hate it. Aw heck, if the Steelers get into the Super Bowl, I might break down and buy a Terrible Towel to wave during the game. Maybe I'll even make black and gold decorations for my apartment.
Next Sunday? I'll tell you why I spent part of the day glued to the tv rooting for the Packers.
The theory.
It's a ridiculous sport. From the shape of the "ball" to the cut of the uniforms, football just looks silly. And those "chains"? I have to roll my eyes a bit each time they trot out with those poofy orange sticks to measure for a first down. Because the location of the football generally depends on the "spot" from the official, couldn't "fourth and inches" usually just as aptly be labeled "ah, hell, they probably made it"? And don't even get me started on the copious patting of asses....
It's a violent sport. If the main objective of the game is to move the ball down the field, the second objective is to pound the tar out of whoever has the ball. Or whoever is between you and the ball. Or whoever is trying to get around you to get to the ball. Most of the players actually seem to roar like beasts when they complete a tackle. Maybe that sort of chest-thumping just reminds me way too much of the senseless aggressiveness that seems to plague so much of our country, from drivers succumbing to road rage to politicians invading foreign nations.
It's a boys' sport. This certainly isn't limited to football, but the only hope a woman has to be "involved" in the game is as a scantily-clad cheertart or as a trophy wife. That's probably my glitch with just about all professional team sports. And though it's gradually changing with women's basketball and soccer, it's never going to change with football. Little boys can grow up dreaming of football fame and fortune (or at least college scholarships). Little girls? Not so much.
The practice.
My dad loved football. So many of my fond memories of my dad involve Sundays and football. I remember watching games together when I was in elementary school. He'd have a pony bottle of beer, and he'd always let me have a sip when I asked, even though I'd always just screw up my face and say that it tasted gross. And when I got older and less interested in the games, I still got a kick out of listening to my dad grumping at the referees, coaches, and players. Oh, how he loved the Steelers. My dad's brother passed away this Thanksgiving. In a sympathy card to my auntie, I wrote that I hoped to take a little comfort in the thought that somewhere, my uncle and my dad were together again, yelling at the tv, enjoying the Steelers game. And even though I really don't believe in the possibility of such an afterlife, it's a nice thought, isn't it?
I grew up in Pittsburgh. The Steelers won four Super Bowls when I was a kid. I remember making black and gold construction paper decorations for our living room when they got into the playoffs in 1979. That team? Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, "Mean" Joe Greene, Lynn Swann, John Stallworth, Rocky Bleier, Mike Webster, Jack Lambert, Jack Ham, Mel Blount, Dwight White, coach Chuck Noll, owner Art Rooney ... I can still rattle off their names as easily as I can the names of my bazillion cousins (Irish Catholics, so many kids). I even still have the sheet music for the "Steeler Polka" that my fourth-grade band teacher gave us. Maybe I'll dust off my trumpet for the playoffs this year!
Football is so gay. Football has to be so excessively, stoopidly macho and homophobic, because it's so, so gay. And that? Cracks me up. Where else will you see so many big, beefy man-hands swatting so many snugly uniformed, tight little man-butts? Where are the quarterback's hands right before the center snaps the ball? Do they really have to grab onto each other and roll around on the turf for so long after the ball's been whistled dead? Mm-hmm. Some day, during the fourth quarter of a really tense game, after like 50 minutes of thrashing hard play, some defensive lineman and some offensive lineman are going to look across the line of scrimmage at each other and get so caught up in the adrenaline and the moment that they throw off their helmets and totally make out. I'm telling you, it's just a matter of time. And I hope I'm watching when it happens. (And I don't even like boys.) Whee!
The realization.
Watching and enjoying football is a way to happily remember my dad. It's one small, comfortable way to stay connected to him and his memory. So, today, on the anniversary of my father's death, I think I've finally learned to just accept the fact that my heart wants to love football as much as my brain wants to hate it. Aw heck, if the Steelers get into the Super Bowl, I might break down and buy a Terrible Towel to wave during the game. Maybe I'll even make black and gold decorations for my apartment.
Next Sunday? I'll tell you why I spent part of the day glued to the tv rooting for the Packers.
posted by D of D&K at 10:14 PM
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