"My Football Dilemma"

Of all the major sports -- of which I include hockey, though others may disagree, believing it can't be a major sport if its nationally televised games are broadcast on Channel two hundred and seventy-five -- the sport I am least enthusiastic about is football.

There are reasons for that. I have given them before, so I'll do it fast. First of all - no, that's not first of all, this is first of all -- critically assessed, football is a neck injury surrounded by a game. Call me wimpy, but I find the imminent possibility of paralysis interferes with my enjoyment of an event. This also explains why I rarely watch boxing, and avoid car racing. I mean, comedians "die" on stage, metaphorically. In boxing and car racing, they can actually die.

"And I saw it happen!"

And that's a good thing?

So much for doing it fast.

My city doesn't have a professional football team, so I have nobody to root for. I don't bet, so there's no financial interest. I am also troubled by a sport whose most recognizable figures are the head coaches.

The coaches are the game's biggest stars. Control freaks with a scowl. Dictators with headsets. These maniacs retire, and when they say, "I want to spend more time with my family", you can hear their families screaming,

"No!"

The game is smotheringly micromanaged. The quarterback comes onto the field with a preset series of plays written on his wristband. And when he runs all of those, further instructions are delivered through the radio in his helmet. For me, this constricting manipulation takes all the "juice" out of the game. It's like a movie star being forced to wear an earpiece, and during the scene, the director, sits off-camera, ordering his emotions.

"Okay -- your first three reactions -- happy, then angry, then really, really sad."

"You want tears?"

"Did I say I wanted tears?"

"Sorry. I just thought..."

"Don't. Think. This is a two hundred million dollar picture. Nobody thinks but me."

And nobody calls the plays but the coach.

Okay. Argument against football made. Case closed.

And then I turn on the game.

And I see this:

The quarterback takes the snap, goes back to pass. The defenders break through the line. Appearing certain to be sacked, the quarterback eludes the grasp of the oncoming rush, all the while looking downfield for an open man. As he's about to be tackled, the quarterback spots his wide receiver, steps up and lofts a spiraling "bomb" in his direction.

Leaping high over the defensive back, the receiver makes a "fingertip" catch near the sidelines. The expected move is to run out of bounds. But he doesn't do that. Instead, he turns away from the sidelines, racing laterally across the field. When his path is blocked, he reverses directions and heads back where he came from, picking up blockers as he goes. He finds the narrowest of seams, breaks into the clear and streaks towards the end zone.

Touchdown!

There was undoubtedly a set play at the beginning. But at some point, it broke down.

And the players took control.

And did impossible things.

Boldly.

Skillfully.

And under unbelievable pressure.

Watching it brings tears in my eyes.

I'm hooked.

And seriously confused.

What can I tell ya?

I love a game I don't like.

Earl Pomerantz's blog can be reached at earlpomerantz.blogspot.com

 

 

Comments

[VolvoAlumni]

"Watching it brings tears in my eyes."

A short anecdote: Last season, the Minnesota Vikings played a mid-season game against the New Orleans Saints. The quarterback for the Vikings at the time was Gus Frerotte, an archetypal NFL veteran who at the time was under fire from the fans and the media for his poor play in the preceding few games. This quarterback had sustained many, many concussion during his career and this game was no different; he had been hit time after time and could barely stand after the last few blows.

During the 4th quarter, the ball is snapped and pressure starts to come from the left. Frerotte leaves the pocket and rolls right to see said wide receiver open far down-field; he also sees a defender running full speed toward him. He has a choice to make: throw it away and avoid the rush, or set up and throw an accurate ball. He chooses the latter and take an enormous hit which leaves him writhing in pain on the hard Superdome turf. The Vikings go on to win the game largely on the gains from that play. In his post-game interview, barely able to form sentences and slurring some of the words, he thanked his teammates and shifted the focus to them.

I still get misty-eyed thinking about it.