As a man, the sport simply speaks to the inherent barbarism that has trickled down my side of the species for time ad nauseum. Some of my fondest high school memories revolve around strapping on the pads and hitting people as hard as I possibly could, without getting in trouble for it. In fact, I can honestly say that I enjoyed getting hit — laid out on my back with stars circling overhead — more than doing the hitting (see Fight Club).
And the language of football is deeply connected to the language of our cave-dwelling ancestors:
Arggh. Me want. Arggh. Me take. Arggh. Touchdown!
Football provides that wormhole back to warriorism — where heroes are born for their stubbornness to quit, where the last guy standing reigns supreme, whether he’s got all of his limbs or not. From this we have been treated to Jim Brown, Walter Payton, Jerry Rice, Joe Montana, Reggie White — WARRIORS the whole lot!!!
And I respect that. All of that. Every single bit of it.
Still, football ain’t baseball.
It’s not even close.
So, for me, when football playoffs come around, it’s just not the same as when baseball playoffs come around.
I don’t obsess over every matchup. I don’t lose sleep at night wondering how the benches will play out. I don’t break things or make women cry or have the cops called on me for repeated noise violations. And this is for games in which my team isn’t even in it.
‘Cuz if my team is in it, you can fuhgettabout me paying attention to anything else but the game, series, trophy, until it’s over.
Hate me ‘cuz it’s the thing to do, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.