Today is the inauguration, but I don’t feel like writing about that or the departing President. It is possible I will never write about him again after this post and that feels like a good thing. As for his followers, they will still remain a subject. I find them much more interesting as a topic.
Today I will write about football and I am writing this in the post-presidency concussion protocol that mysteriously many Americans don’t seem to suffer from.
So on with the kickoff…
It was early in the game and the cliches were rolling in with regularity and whenever I heard one, I longed for Howard Cosell and his use of “scintillating” to describe a pass reception. Or “moribund” to describe an offense’s production.
What I heard:
Lean on the ground game.
They’ve got to score to win the game.
Ground and pound.
He’s really good in space.
He has great pocket presence.
They’ve got to establish the running game.
He’s got great football IQ.
At least the commentators didn’t say frozen tundra!
Early second quarter…as the commercials for beer, trucks and crap never seemed to end, I conceived of an existentialist play called Waiting for the Kickoff. Here’s the premise: two Trumpians sit on a couch drinking beer, eating a nacho, shooting the shit, while waiting for an NFL playoff game to begin. Endless commercials play during their conversation, which covers topics ranging from Trump (he’s a God), the existence of God (stone cold truth) and the Tooth Fairy (she’s hot and horny).
Of course, the kickoff never comes but the Trumpians don’t seem to mind or even notice. (Note to self: brush up on Sartre’s play.)
Late second quarter: I turned it off.