Synonymous with the changing of the autumn leaves is the changing of man’s demeanor as the onset of football season looms closer. If you thought the men of baseball season were bad, you cannot imagine the horrors evoked within the football fan – he is a snarling ball of fury operating on a cycle not unlike a woman’s.
Man’s PMS is provoked by the game’s stalwartly routine schedule. Unlike the spontaneous game schedule of other sports, football plays at the same time every week, thus provoking predictable and regular symptoms. These symptoms vanish shortly after the game (depending on the outcome), only to reappear within 5-7 days.
On the eve of game day, man begins his werewolfian transformation. A general rowdiness permeates his entire being: his expression glazes over, his eyes grow wild, his hunger for violence increases, and his attention span lengthens to what for a man is monumental - three hours. Be forewarned though - do not try to apply this augmented attention span to anything other than football…your efforts will be in vain.
One perk of man’s cycle is the knowledge of where our football fans will be on Sunday and Monday nights. Those of us not inclined to follow this arresting spectacle can place ourselves elsewhere on these given occasions.
Why the appeal of such a charming diversion? To the educated eye – mainly women and foreigners, in this case– the rules of this jumbled mess of ogres in padding are impenetrable to most. Don’t ask man to explain the rules to you – you will soon see that the cat has his tongue. Most will growl at you to watch the game, a lame attempt to distract you from getting an explanation.
What better way to decipher this mystery than go straight to the aficionado’s mouth? I asked many men to explain to me why they liked football. An unusual number of men gave the same reply as to why they sacrifice time, energy, and their livers for such a debacle: the strategy.
Strategy? Not really the first thing that comes to my mind when thinking of football -for me it’s the phrase, "tight ends". I find the answer of "strategy" to be highly suspicious. Furthermore, I find the nature of the response to be more suspicious: each man answered me with the rapid vigor reminiscent of the “no!” they give when asked the “Do I look fat in this?” question. Both are programmed responses uttered without thought, both intended to placate an annoying woman.
Always more than willing to give men the benefit of the doubt, I journeyed to a sports bar during high football time, where I reasoned I would find the strategists playing chess during commercial breaks. Perhaps I too would join the legions of football fans, astonished by the strategic nuances of this confuddling game. My intent was to absorb the atmosphere of a sports bar on Sunday afternoon, and I looked forward to rhapsodies on strategy, discourses on plays, and a steely admiration of the rules of the game.
And then I arrived.
“Whoa…he’s going to puke!” one gentleman capitulated through a mouthful of hot wings, gesturing with admiration towards a nearby television. Another indignantly slammed his hands down on the table as a player limped off the field: “Oh please, he’s fine…its just his f***ing ankle. I sprained my ankle, like, 1,000 times…”. As a different player was carried off the field on a stretcher, one man triumphantly threw his napkin down: “That’s what you f***ing get…now your quarterback is hurt! Hahaha!”. And finally, after an invigoratingly exciting play, a group of men erupted into raucous laughter at that table next to me: “That was hilarious,” one exclaimed, wiping the tears from his eyes, “That guy could’ve died!” His friends, thankfully, agreed.
Was this a representative sports bar? Perhaps I was in a sadist’s den – but I rechecked the title of the establishment, (Blondie’s Sports Bar) and the waitresses (all blonde), both confirming that this was a sports bar, and these sadists were indeed the strategists!
In fact, Blondie’s is on the Upper West Side of Manhattan – land of high culture and implicitly less violent than artistic. Yet while the rest of the Upper West Side was having tea at 4pm on a Sunday, the crowd at Blondie’s was scarfing wings and yelling at television sets, quite drunk.
Clearly, the tackling, thwomping, and hitting is what appeals to men. As one man gleefully disclosed: “football is the only time when one man can wallop another in public…and he gets away with it!”
Before you get your knickers in a twist, boys, I’m not implying that your precious game is without strategy. I’m simply suggesting that your pants are on fire for referring to strategy as the main reason for your fandom. If you’re that interested in strategy, play Mastermind.
Perhaps because of sentiments such as these, women fit obliquely into man’s football tradition – as adjutants, if anything. A woman who tolerates football is a rare find indeed, evidenced by the number of wedding rings I saw at Blondie’s – apparently sports bars are the only bar where a man willingly wears his wedding ring.
Football appeals to every aspect of man’s hedonistic tendencies, and to such an extent, that one wonders if it were not invented by a woman. After all, the game proves a convenient distraction to free up her time for literary and philosophical pursuits. How perfectly the game appeals to men’s basest desires: drinking beer, yelling, cheerleaders, and violence.
Further proof that football is womankind’s joke on men: the ass slapping between players. This public display of affection provides sexual justification for the fan and therefore more free time for female pursuits – in this case, sleep. Perhaps the greatest justification though, is watching man struggle to explain this particular football tradition. His floundering is hilarious – and we’re still laughing about this one.
