I DON'T CARE.
Got that, Booboo? I
don't care!
Here I am: the American man, leaving
my mid-forties later this year. I am a US citizen (heh-heh, with German
citizenship in my back pocket), I vote in every election I can get to (missed
the big one in 1996 because I was overseas... but fortunately the election turned
out all right), I once owned a car with fins on it, I prefer to buy
American-made, I eat hot dogs in the summer and apple pie perhaps a little too
often (though in the autumn, pumpkin's my downfall).
I am straight, reasonably
intelligent, open-minded, college undergrad; I go to Mass every Sunday (and
sometimes in between), I love my kids and my mother, miss my dad, try hard to
listen to my boss; and if I weren't so heaven-bent on entering a monastery or
seminary, I'd be on the market for one more open-minded ( = desperate) woman to
finish my life with.
I SIMPLY DON'T CARE about bloody
football!
I don't care that today is (let's
all bow – no; you bow; I'll tap my toes impatiently) Super Bowl Sunday. I
don't care about any sport – professional, academic, amateur, olympic,
whatever. I grumble when the latest "Simpsons" episode is preempted
by yet another screenful of overweight, overpaid men in tight pants chasing
each other and a weird-shaped "ball" up and down a striped field.
Do please understand that I'm not
anti-football; rather, I simply don't care for it, and care little about it.
This has called for much patience from my mother, a brother-in-law, and my
older daughter, all of whom are very sports-focused and seem happiest yelling
at a fumble or dropped pitch.
Nor have I any desire to see this
sport wiped out of our universe, or relegated to pick-me-up games in the park
on fall weekends. A lot of time, money, and economy are tied up in sports of
all levels and – aside from where it fills too much of many children's
schedules – their loss to the powerhouse of western civilization would be of
near-catastrophic impact.
In school, I did play some football
in gym class... and fortunately the other players never looked to me for
anything pivotal during our games. This was
not a bad experience, folks; I didn't know how to play, didn't want to
learn, and fortunately was not pressed to be a great part of it.
In 1996, I actually enjoyed watching
a high-school game in north New Jersey with a girlfriend, whose niece (IIRC)
was a cheerleader. But I couldn't follow the action, was baffled by a yellow
flag thrown onto the field more than once, and totally confused when suddenly
each team began defending the other end of the field.
Bless my daughter's heart; during
one game a few weeks ago, which was being shown on one of the large-screen TVs
at my brother-in-law's house, she explained some of the basics, and objectives,
translated the yellow line and the blue one, and so on, with great patience and
no condescension. She enjoyed being my tutor for this impromptu class, and I do
have to admit that – while noncaring about the sport – I am mildly curious
about it... just not curious enough to tune into a game under ordinary
circumstances. So Dear Daughter Shelly's information has since evaporated again
from my cranial grooves; this is not her fault, of course, and I do appreciate
her effort.
At about this same time of year in
1991, I suggested to a girlfriend (not the one I attended the high-school game
with) something for the tiny minority of straight American men like me: on this
particular hallowed Sunday evening each year, throw a "Superb Owl
Party", complete with stuffed, wizened bird in the corner. My girlfriend
suggested the slogan: "For those who don't care a hoot about football!" We could have the usual football fare –
beer, beans, bucket o' wings – and put on an action film or
"chick-flick".
Heh; we guys would be in a delicious
minority there, too, because (I suspect) most of the attendees would be the
football-widow type, and nonmarried gals who've been shoved aside for the day
by their obsessed men.
Anyway, I never held one of those
parties, but every year I give it some thought, and likely will continue do so.
But the point would not be to make a point; it would simply be to provide an
alternative get-together with friends, and friends of friends, who care as
little about football as I do.
But when it comes to a good football
game, I'll pass.
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