Football. The sport of American champions. From the massive popularity of Taylor Swift’s new boy-toy to the massive amount of times Tom Brady kisses his son on the mouth, What’s not to love? The truly most american sport where working class people smash their bodies into each other for owners, managers and advertising companies to exploit them. Some say this is a jaded view of the sport and its grand history, But like any history in the United States, It’s definitely driven by racism and capitalism. But this isn’t my essay and certainly not my soap box, this is the NFL.
Football didn’t come crashing into my life until recently. I’d never been a strong proponent of the sport and had never even decided a favorite team. My father coached some football at a small level but never dragged me into that world. I was far too much of a whimsical and dramatic child, who would rather spend time on the stage or tucked away in the library playing Strike Force Heroes 2. Football crashed into my life with a series of massive thuds, bangs and screams from the dorm room next to mine. For within this room dwells a man who is dedicated to the game.
When I say dedicated, I mean it. Each Sunday and Monday, without failure, this babarious goon will thrash about and yell towards the television all the transgressions that he can observe from his cell-like dwelling. The paper thin walls are never able to protect my sacred and relaxing domain of Dungeons and Dragons youtube videos from being interrupted from a screeching yawp. A curse word thrown into each sentence with reckless abandon and each hulking bellow punctuated by the shaking floor.
To me this brute is an enigma. A man who exists with so much passion and furious misplaced anger as to call the men he sees on the television the R-slur. A man who simply disregards the nature of his own surroundings to forget he dwells not just in a shared room, but a shared building with other members. A man who screams and yells at the moving images projected on a LCD screen of men who huddle and crash into each other, that care not in any instance for his well being. He fascinates me. Perhaps not the single man himself but this genre of masculinity that is so connected to the pigskin melee.
This prompted me to do the most dangerous and terrifying thing one person can do, Integrate internal patterns of behavior. I thought, What was my football? Is it my horrible need to feel love and attention? Certainly not, that’s the human condition. Is it my massive amount of worry and anxiety for the future? That’s nothing a blunt can’t fix. What about my massive pile of Kaczynskian surrogate activities? Probably yes. In the end I’m not sure. But the American people do know one thing. This footballwatching-slurspeaking-walnutbrained-dormroomthrashing-nobitchhaving-cretan
Needs to SHUT THE FUCK UP.
It’s Monday night and I have an 8:30 class.