Former football greats blathered on for hours about plays and predictions. My newspaper held my interest longer as did the occasional empty thought roaming through my head. Football just doesn’t mean that much to me. But I understand the obsession with that big game day. As I’ve been known to watch pre-Oscar coverage for six hours or more, so must some watch this sporting spectacle, though I argue, the Oscar coverage includes much more interesting fashion.
After some sort of interpretive dance display involving bright colors, cheerleaders (NBC Heroes promo?), acrobats and Gloria Estefan — could there be any more items that so don’t go together? — the guys in white lined up. This is my niece’s favorite part — the chorus line of kick off. A young Bear waited around the five yard line for the kick. The announcers said his Rookie name and, not knowing his reputation, I told him what I wanted.
“OK, Hester. I hate football. Since this crap has to be on all day, you have to run the football back 95 yards and score a touchdown,” I said. “I’ll accept nothing less.”
So the chorus line ran and the pointy-footed one in the middle kicked the ball. It flew through the air far downfield. Hester grabbed and held it like me getting the last piece of home-cooked to-die-for fried chicken from the table.
And he ran.
Guys in white fell at his feet.
“He’s still running,” I said, in disbelief.
And he ran.
“Woot! Go, go, go, little man!”
Into the end zone and …. TOUCHDOWN! Woo hoo! Happy dance and clapping! I didn’t watch the rest of the game. My football needs were met within the first 15 seconds. I should have gone out and bought a lottery ticket then, but I didn’t. And I was left thinking… If only all men did what I asked them to do.