Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 172
Football, fall and
healing the soul
S
o, OK, last week, I bemoaned
the demise of the summer as
an end to good times, and as a
metaphor for lost youth. And while
I still stand by all that … well, you
know, I got over it. I cleaned out the
emotional garbage and moved on.
And, my friends, football was,
and is, my tonic for recovery.
As the televised games sweep in,
an ocean of hope and rejuvenation
washes over me, and all things are
new and possible.
It’s a brand-new season, and, at
least mathematically, every team
has a chance to be a champion. And
this optimism rubs off on the rest
of us.
Though we’ve still got a few days
until “official” fall begins, for all
intents and purposes, autumn has
arrived with the pigskin, and we
signal for a fair catch and receive it,
gratefully.
With the pros getting on with
their real season, and glorious college and exciting high school games
filling the stadiums and airwaves,
the “fall” is taking on that old, familiar excitement and crispness.
We in SoCal just have to close the
blackout curtains, turn up the air
conditioning and watch the leaves
change colors on the TV when
ESPN cuts away to the scenery dur-
Jim
WALKER
DON’T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY
ing games broadcast from Massachusetts.
Finally, unblocked, uncorked
and free, it’s time to let the television schedule organize our weekends. And, brothers, we will hear
no words to the contrary. The guiltmongering naggers who promote
false productivity, bogus higher
consciousness and honeydos have
been drowned out by the sound of
really big guys smashing into each
other.
Ah, bliss.
Each four-day weekend will be
filled with football from Friday
night to Monday night, and midweek games will get us through the
bleak times. And if you have all the
sports packages, well, you’d better set up cots for your buddies because they will be your family until February.
See WALKER, A5
Walker
Continued from A1
Fall is the time for
bratwurst, beer and bonding, with our alter egos on
the field doing the work,
feeling the pain and bringing us thrilling, vicarious life. Every game is an
emotional roller coaster,
far more entertaining than
real existence, and if you
don’t have a genuine stake
in the contest, you root for
whoever is behind when
you turn the game on.
Your loyalty sways with
the point spread. And if
the thing gets too lopsided,
you just change the channel to a different game,
and a better world begins.
Beyond the game, itself,
the visuals are stunning.
With the colors painted on
the artificial turf and on
the fans, the graphics added in the broadcast, the
fashion statements of to-
day’s uniforms, the tattoos on the players’ arms
and their hairdos when
they pull off their helmets
— well, it’s flat-out pageantry.
With the pros you’ve got bionic ability and freakish size
and speed. You can watch for
the awe-factor alone, even
if you don’t have a favorite
team. And you can always
root against the Raiders.
With college games you’ve
got bands, chanting fans,
close-ups on smiling cheerleaders and players who give
everything they have with
true heart, or at least the driving need to get a pro contract.
And you’ve got team names
running the gamut of viciousness from Tigers and Bears
to Beavers and Horned Frogs,
and from Warriors to Vandals
to, well, Commodores.
With high school, unfortunately, you’ve got oddly sized
kids in ill-fitting uniforms being run over by genetic exceptions. But you’ve also
got bands, school spirit and
crushing throngs of youths
milling about the stands and
texting each other, which
more than makes up for any
lack of finesse on the field.
And all of this, boys, is like
chicken soup for our tortured
souls, worn down by bills
and busywork, errands and
emotional shortage. Football gets our heart rates up,
without the discomfort of
exercise. It gives us reason
to live.
’T’sallgood.
I am at peace.
