Football

Football

I love football. Actually, no—I like football. Or, more precisely, I like it when the team I'm rooting for is winning in football. It's a game that's always been near to my heart, even if my relationship with it has been a bit unconventional. I used to *play* football—well, not really. I used to play *with* a football. There’s a difference, and the distinction matters.

When I was ten, I had this big gravel parking lot next to my house. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a kid with a decent imagination. Whenever I was bored, I’d head out there and make up games. One of those games? Football. Or my version of it, anyway. I’d kick off on one side and then run the ball back to the other. Once there, I’d give myself three passes to get it to a goal—whatever that "goal" was in my mind. Even in Canada, if the football fans heard that, they’d think I was out of my mind. But that was my game, and the point was, I liked having a football in my hands.

Of course, being 10, I could only do this for maybe 15 minutes before my attention drifted elsewhere. That’s about the time when my piano lessons would call me back, and—sorry, Mom—but, in hindsight, those were a bit of a waste. My heart was always on the field, or at least in the gravel lot.

But let’s be honest—football is more than just a game. It’s a cultural obsession in this country. Every year, people have actual withdrawals when the season ends with the Super Bowl. I mean, sure, it's good for the one percent who don't want us noticing their massive wealth, but the CIA doesn't even need to plant crack in the stadiums to get us hooked. We’re already addicted.

Football fans, though—they're something else. They’re the most fanatical group on the planet. You’ll see guys in speedos braving -15 degree weather, like they’re the ones out there playing. Some even strip down and run across the field, only to wave and high-five their way out like they were the heroes who saved the game. The face paint, the hair dyed in team colors, the wild mascots—it’s all a part of the spectacle.

Then there are the superstitions. Oh, the superstitions. A lucky hat worn every game day, costumes that rival Halloween, or tattoos—some truly questionable ones. I mean, imagine a husband explaining why he got a Raiders tattoo on his arm instead of his wife’s name. I’ve seen it. I even saw a guy once with a tattoo of a fist flipping me off. Talk about dedication. Fans have their lucky charms—whether it’s a piece of gear, a ritual, or a finger tap, it's all about doing *something* to help the team. 

I’ll admit, I’m guilty too. When I used to listen to the Detroit Tigers games, I had this way of tapping my fingers, a rhythm I’d fall into if the team needed a hit. It was just a habit—a harmless little quirk. Nothing wrong with that, right? 

As I sit here, tapping away to help the Tigers (because let’s face it, they still need all the help they can get), I’ll leave you with this: Play ball!