Every fall when the leaves turn brown, Friday evening rolls around, I sit down in my TV chair, my face assumes a TV stare.
Goodbye world. Goodbye family. It's football time.
It's highlight films, last week's games, commercials starring big league names, analyses of all the plays, picking the winners for Saturday,
interviews with the stars, interviews with the water boy, interviews with the fullback's grandmother.
On Saturday, it's do or die for dear old Cywash. We'll defy the enemy to dim our stars who have their eyes on brand new cars.
Thank God for that.
Thank God for scholarships. Thank God for alumni. Thank God for the school of education.
Now my poor wife has got it rough, because Saturdays would be enough, but Sundays are tales she knows too well, a doubleheader in the NFL.
She says I don't listen to her. Said she was going to Reno. Sounded to me like a new formation.
Now halftime shows of pretty girls, in little short skirts and long blonde curls, but who's got time for me?
And I just can't afford two sets. But don't fret, Jets. With $400,000 for Namath, and $200,000 for Hewitt, you can spend them to death.
The terminology is giving me fits. It's Red Dogs, cornerbacks, double safety blitz, jitterbugging, automatic, submarine zip, zig out, down and out, collarbone hip.
Listen to the huddle. Hear the quarterback say, Tucker, just take that ball and run.
Run for your life. It's your turn to be on instant replay.
Well, as I sat there sipping beer, a shoe came whistling by my ear. A bullet pass. I really mean it went right through the TV screen.
My wife was laughing hysterically. I said, don't worry, honey. I can have it fixed by next Saturday.
I said, don't worry. I can have it fixed by next Saturday.