© Celine Sparks
Football season’s over, isn’t it? We only know there’s one color on the spectrum around here. We’ve read Fifty Shades of Crimson fifty-one times. We breathe interceptions and false starts from late August to January tenth-ish. And then we say, “Well, I guess there’s nothing good ‘til free pancake day at IHOP.”
I know it’s hard for you to believe if you’re from NFL infused states, but we really never even understood how the word Super got into Super Bowl. We hardly knew when it was. We don’t even speak the language, and the stores around here put all football-themed paper plates on clearance January 11.
I hardly speak the technical language of football at all. I thought Targeting was running to the store to buy all the Velveeta and Little Smokies you can because about 42 people are about to invade your house for the Iron Bowl.
But it turns out that targeting is something that commentators (omniscient guys in suits who used to play football, but decided it’s easier to talk about it instead) can spend the bulk of the entire program discussing.
By the way, how did that happen? In post-game interviews, players are often about as articulate as a french fry. Then suddenly, when they retire, they can’t shut up. They can discuss at length why the tight end isn’t quite tight enough, and how the kicker has become much more proficient since growing a mustache. I understand. Lip hair can do that.
They have statistics memorized. The hippocampus, the neocortex, and the amygdala are all exploding with useless information due to so many concussions. And every play and every game sets records, such as:
Most consecutive wins in a row on the road when opposing coaches have both had appendectomies within the past 23 months.
Longest field goal attempt within the first three-and-a-half minutes of a game where a team wearing gold uniforms won the coin toss.
Most rushing yards among players with size 14 cleat or larger.
Anyway, yeah, these guys have been talking about targeting a lot in recent years. On the games we watch at least. Which are college games, remember? So it goes like this: If you intentionally lead with the crown of the helmet, and hit the other guy or something, and they review and review the previous play until the ruling on the field stands, the helmet-crown guy gets ejected from the game. I know my football.
I’m just thinking, if I were playing a game where no matter how fast I ran like crazy, people were trying to knock me down and succeeding, and I was wearing stuff that made me look like I had shoulder enlargement surgery, and the only way I was sure I was still breathing, is that I could see every breath I took in sub-zero temperatures, I think I’d run up and tug on the referee’s shirt, and say, “I’m pretty sure I just targeted.”
That’s why it’s more fun to play from the couch. Our couch commentators say:
“He led with his head.”
“No, it was unintentional.”
“It doesn’t matter. The rules say if he leads with his head – ”
“When I played in high school, you could make helmet-to-ribcage contact.”
“When you played in high school, you hit each other’s animal skins with cavemen
clubs.”
Yeah, our necks aren’t full-on red, but they’re crimson! We were bred that way and can’t help it. Growing up, we were never allowed to say the Au**** word unless it was in the same sentence with “stinks” or “so dumb.” We were not allowed to speak during the Golden Flake Bear Bryant show, and we had to listen to Paul Finebaum on the radio before the rest of the world knew who he was.
But while we’re not much about pro ball, we started hearing that the food was pretty good at Super Bowl parties, and that the commercials were funny. While the commercials couldn’t do it alone, the thought of buffalo chicken wings and pigs in blankets gave us great reasons to consider throwing one of these shindigs.
And so we do. Every year. It's called Super Bowl Second Half at the Sparks. We go to church the first half, and try to apply what we learned about being Christian in the second half.
We eat, and we laugh, and we eat, and we point at the coaches and laugh at their toupees, and people’s kids drag out all our board games, and in the last three minutes, we all stand up for some reason as if it’s the last song before the closing prayer, and we start fidgeting as if we’ve cared about this game or known who’s in it from the beginning. We yell "Roll Tide" and run in circles because it’s all we know how to do.
Then everyone goes home. We look around at a huge pile of dirty dishes and trails of cheese curls. And this is when we remember to apply the Bible we learned the first half to our post-game situation.
“And I will turn your feasts into mourning.”
Amos 8:10
Comments