Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Why I Love Football

From the moment it begins I am hooked
by the pomp and circumstance
by the over-the-top pageantry and larger-than-life
Bose-inspired, John Williams-infused
surround sound announcing:

It helps that I adore men in uniform
especially these gladiators tricked out in
modern-day versions of 
Roman Coliseum Fashion,
in uniforms that enhance the shape 
of broad shoulders and small waists,
muscular thighs and the outright
grab-ability of (some of) those asses.

I respect how undistracted and hyper-focused
these men are, deep inside the
Football Compartment of their group mind,
competitive and testosterone-laden,
aches and pains a mile away
covered by adrenaline and God knows what else
cooked in the Big Pharm Labs of 'Merica.

Caressed by the roar of the crowd, 
I love the backslapping, the pig piles,
that ridiculous and comical rooster dance
that's beautiful to watch no matter which
player's crowing and those celebratory leaps
to smash chests which you will never see
women do.

I deeply respect the lack of pity, self- or otherwise,
and how those tough-guy, black and white-garbed refs
wear their belts like construction workers
undisturbed and fearless, totally comfortable
on the field and in charge of all those crazy, 
doped up warrior dudes who run like banshees
smashing and grabbing, grunting and yelling,
thrilled to be alive.

I love the tattoos and long hair,
how there's a rule for everything, how mad
these men and boys get when they break one, 
and how everyone knows they did, and 
how those flags flutter in earnest and whistles shrill 
hard for both major and minor transgressions. 

I have even begun to understand the point of cheerleaders
who bounce up and down in their seductive little outfits
telling the world they are good for one thing and
one thing only and Lord knows it's not a conversation 
requiring brains, except the kind that ends in bed
and yeah, ok, I'm a little bit judge-y still but the truth is,
and I will deny I ever said this except under the worst kind
of torture, there is something primitively appealing
about beautiful, young, sexy women
who relish being beautiful and sexy
unabashedly cheering on those 
hardworking, young, and sweaty men
who relish hard work and sweat. 

So you see how I adore those warriors on the battlefield
enveloped by the roar of the crowd and
The Voice of the Announcer,
hands over patriotic hearts as they sing
Our National Anthem before heading into battle
with a few non-lethal weapons: 
determination and thick skin,
heavy bones and deep muscle,
youthfulness and vigor,
athleticism and teamwork,
the willingness to suffer for the larger goal
of beating the other guys, of killing them even, 
safe in the modern reality that
nobody actually