American Football--What a DUD! (by Karen Bessey Pease)
I think I’m in love.
And the best place I can think of to gush about this new-found adoration is here on Down Under Dunder, my pal Jack’s blog.
I’ve been in love before. The first infatuation I can recall was with Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man. Then, as a teenager, I was enthralled with horses--most particularly, McDuff, my blue roan Appaloosa. Into my twenties, I had the hots for Thomas Magnum, of Magnum, P.I. And as I matured towards my thirties, I flipped for Mr. Bessey Pease. (By the way, my husband does not come when he’s called by that name, so you’d be wasting your breath to try. At fifty years old, he’s barely housebroken, and rarely even lays down on command.)
Now… here I am in my forties. Middle aged. Like old McDuff, I’ve gotten long in the tooth. My days of fantasizing that I could run off into the sunset with my bionic dream man are a thing the past. (I still like to make that distinctly bionical, percussion-like sound when I run, though…)
What?????? Aw, c’mon!
Anyway, my new-found love is not for a man, or even a large and noble animal. (And those were, of course, completely different kinds of love. Just thought I should be clear on that…) Nope, my most recent fancy is for a game. A game where there is not just one handsome man to look at…but a whole slew of ‘em! Well-built men…men who are dressed in short shorts and have thighs like those of a Greek god.
You understand that I am a Mainer, from the United States. The most north-eastern state in the Union. Baseball, hotdogs, apple pies and Chevrolets…that’s what little American girls are made of.
We have our own version of football up here, which is all I was acquainted with until recently. I am a fan of the New England Patriots. I’ve been known, on occasion, to have the patience to watch—for four hours straight--a game that should only last a little more than one hour. I’ve even managed to do so without screaming in frustration. Without cancelling my satellite dish subscription, or cussing too loudly, or swearing off the game forever. But see….American football was all I’d known.
Not so, anymore!
I’ve just had the pleasure of watching some awesome DVDs. Wallaby Wonders. A Decade of the Super 12s. Rugby League’s Greatest Tries of the Century. And I’ve gotta say….Rugby beats the socks off American football! And without a doubt, Rugby uniform socks are MUCH prettier than their American counterparts, too!
Naturally, I’m feeling a bit of guilt, here. Feeling like a traitor to all men with massive shoulder pads, heavy helmets and over-sized cups. But I’m an honest woman—usually to my detriment—and there is no doubt about it-- Rugby makes football look like a game for sissies.
I did NOT just say that!!! Not, not, not!!! I am a loyal American, and would never utter such blasphemous words! This is Jack Ramsay’s blog, and he must have snuck in here and tinkered with the intent of my statement, and censored my words before publication…
What I said is this: Those pro football players need to shuck some clothing and accessories!! To keep my interest from now on, they need to slide along the turf on the skin of their knees instead of the padded upholstery they currently protect themselves with. They need referees who aren’t dropping flags right and left, but who let the game be played despite the potential for bone-crushing boo-boos or slight infractions of the rules. Football players need to doff those huge helmets and let their fans see the agony on their faces when they’re tackled, or the euphoria that lights them when they’ve made a touchdown. (I know, I know…it’s called a ‘try’ here on DUD. Excuse me…I’m still a novice to the game.) Yup, to ensure my enthusiasm for the sport, the NFL players need to toughen up, and they need to undress! Grrr!
Of course, that’s just one American woman’s opinion. But I’m an honest American woman, and I think I’m in love.
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