‘Tis the season
September 13, 2012
I’m one of a few American males born without the NFL chromosome. Due to this rare deficit, I cannot tell the Buffalo Bulls from the Barnacle Bills and wouldn’t bother to try. To me, television football is as exciting as watching someone play solitaire. I think it would be more interesting if the winning team got to eat the losing coach. The only good sports contest would be the Dallas Cheerleaders versus the Molson Girls.
Sufferers of NFL chromosome-deficiency like myself, must use extreme caution when accosted by sports enthusiasts. Especially ones with surgically implanted beer cozies. Turn it right back on them. A Sumo-wrestler type comes up to you in a bar and says, “Hey, how ’bout them Bulls?”
“(Me) Yeah, them bulls’re awesome. Beer?”
Contrast this example of how not to respond:
“(Sumo-wrestler type) Hey, how ’bout them Bulls?”
“(Me) I can’t believe you would bother watching overpaid felons bump tummies and pat each other on the butt all afternoon. You’ve obviously kissed off your tenuous grasp of reality by pretending football means something.”
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“(Mr. Sumo) Oh, yeah? You suck! I’m gonna kick your Budweiser into next week.”
I don’t get it. Two guys who’ve never met, pull in to a lonely diner from different directions and sit down at the counter. Twenty minutes later they’re arguing over their fantasy football teams, cracking their third beer and on their way to Best Friends Forever status. Never happened in my life.
Which brings us to the dreaded “Sports Bar.” Well, no, actually it doesn’t because I avoid them. However, if trapped, it is easy to talk sports in a sports bar. Just lean over and read the blender, “They _______ them!” Insert one: pulverized, crushed, crumbled, chopped, diced or pureed. Cliches were made for football and vice-versa, aided by insightful commentary like, “Whoa! They really took it in the shorts on that play!”
In my high school, sports participation was mandatory but you could choose any sport you were interested in. After considerable research, I chose the discus. It weighs 12 pounds. You walk out into the field, pick it up, throw it and go home.
Discus-throwing is even easier than it sounds, with little of the pain and sweat involved in actual conditioning. My training was evenly divided between aerobic lounging and ogling the girl’s gym team. When you throw the discus, you wait your turn and five seconds later, you’re headed for the showers.
The correct delivery involves a one and three-quarters spin prior to releasing. Once, in mid-spin, it occurred to me, that if I whirled twice as many times, perhaps it would go twice as far.
The problem lay in that, in my Olympian concentration, I incorrectly added 1-3/4 to itself, coming up with 3-1/4 which proved to be an unfortunate error for the coach standing in seeming safety directly behind me.
By graduation his condition was described as “stable” and when I went to visit him in the hospital, it was a bit strained but he forgave me and suggested I avoid sports in the future.
Advice I’ve heeded.
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