It’s been a while, so writing about football is probably not what you expected from yours truly. I mean, there’s so much out there to discuss (debates, primaries, the anniversary of the worst Supreme Court decision in recent history, Italian cruise disasters, Hedi Klum’s love life) that ruminations on a non-spherical ball seem, well, trite.
And I suppose they are. But I can’t escape the feeling that football is a metaphor for so many things, which can encompass the above-referenced list.
For example, football is a rough-and-tumble foray into the dirt. Kind of like what just happened in South Carolina.
Roe v. Wade was a bunch of Supreme Court justices pretending to find a right to abortion nestled snugly inside of the ‘right to privacy’ nowhere enunciated in the Bill of Rights. It was, if you’ll excuse the expression, a judicial quarterback fake, making us believe that there was something there…when there wasn’t.
The captain on that Italian cruise ship is a repugnant show-off, not to mention a coward and a knave. Like the hot-dogging tight end who preens in the end zone and pulls an ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’ penalty, thereby hurting his entire team, “Il Capitano” steered his ship onto rocky shoals just so he could strut in front of friends on the Island of “Giglio.” And this time, everyone paid the steep price for his arrogance.
Heidi is a model. Football players date models (except the hundred or so who bedded Kim Kardashian, who is anything but model.) Yes, a tenuous connection, but it exists nonetheless.
The real reason I’ve been spending so much time thinking about football is that, this season in particular, it’s shown me how futile faith really is. One can believe that your team will strive for excellence, one can forgive the corpulent coach for what appears to be hubris, one can wonder if the 1% level owner really gives a damn about the plebeians who buy tickets year after year in the hopes of a championship.
And then you see that the two teams that you hate the most, neither of whom have very good records (but…here’s the point…they’re better than your own pathetic crew) make their way into the Super bowl. And you are left wondering who in the world you can root for, or against, since it’s hard to tell the difference between the Devil-Who-Married-One-Supermodel-After-Impregnating-And-Then-Abandoning-Another, and the Devil who lives in New York.
It’s so tragic, it’s almost Shakespearean. Like the death of icons. Which is a story for another time.