I don’t like football* much.
Sure, I’ll root for the Bengals out of hometown loyalty whenever they hit the Superbowl—and sigh sadly when they choke—and display appropriate pleased surprise when I’m told that Miami of Ohio actually won a game, but after nine years in various marching bands, the merest glimpse of a gridiron tends to give me a damp wool stinking, sun glaring, out of tune-ish, heavy hatted, flashback headache.
Plus, it’s essentially boring—like a real battle,** it’s made mostly of Hurry Up and Wait. If I had my way, the clock would only stop for halftime*** and every single time out—team or referee—would cause an immediate electric shock to be administered to a favorite body part of the person who called it and the general manager of that team and the owner. We’d see some freakin’ hustle then . . .
But there are exceptions to my general apathy of the sport—and some analogies are too good to pass up.
So.
If you can see Number 14 as a writer, the players in yellow as all the I Don’t Wannas and I Don’t Have Times and Oh, God This is Complete $#&%s that make up Writer’s Block, and the players in white as the I Think I Cans, I’m Gonna Do it Anyways, and Just One #$%& Word at a Time of the writer’s interior support team . . .
. . . then I can admit that football has its uses after all.
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*American football, that is. Soccer, as most of the civilized world doesn’t call it, is fine by me. As is rugby, which I consider GBH soccer—or maybe land hockey. Tomato, tomahto.
**Which it isn’t. No, really.
***Which would be broadcast in full, commercial free. Musicians suffer for those shows, damn it.
Earful of Cider 