Ode to Football: Confessions of a Former Jock Hater

When I was growing up, my dad watched football every weekend during football season. And since we only had one TV, this meant that I basically couldn't watch anything but football during the main times when I normally watched TV. And I did NOT like to watch football.

I have some memories of important games. They don't involve what happened on screen, but seeing my dad and my brother jump up and dance around the living room after something good happened. I don't know what the hell it was, but it must have been amazing because I only saw that happen once. I also remember the chanting of 'Crush the Orgnge Crush' breaking my concentration as I tried to read Siddhartha.

In college, I never went to a football game and since I hung out with mostly non-Americans who liked soccer, I had a not so positive opinion of football culture.

It is only in recent years that I've developed an appreciation of college football and of college football players. I think it was Charles Woodson who did me in. Who could not be amazed at the strength, speed and endurance of the Heisman winner as he raced down the field, followed by half a dozen guys who couldn't catch him no matter how hard they tried? Or who could not swoon watching him leap into the air, much higher than any human should be able to jump straight up in perfect time to catch an odd, elliptical, should-be-incatchable ball flying through the air at high speed? (And it doesn't hurt that when this was caught on film, the moment when he was in the air with his hand stretched up to meet the ball, his shirt always lifted up enough to give us a glimpse of his belly.)

This is the difference between me and you, boys. I'll never feel like my ideintiry is tied up in how my team fares. I won't be horribly dejected if they lose. I mean, I don't want them to lose, but to me it's just a game. (It's only because Jack is horribly depressed that I go into hiding on game loss days. I think he might really be the Incredible Hulk. "Don't stay here if Michigan loses. You wouldn't like me when Michigan loses.")

But I do love to watch the players. Mike Hart dodging around, under, through the bigger, burlier guys, dragging them through the field like they don't weigh over two hundred pounds each. The man is a train with brains. Denard Robinson spinning out of the grasp of a small fortress composed of trained tacklers to break down the field and leave them all gasping in his wake. That sort of thing makes me cheer and laugh. That sort of thing makes me marvel at what it means to be human.

So, yeah. I don't really get it. But then again, maybe I do.

(How's that for banal, Mr. Give Us a Break? Jerk.)