Here we stand, at the beginning of all things. The leaves have yet to begin their turn, but fall is here all the same.
It’s just a game. A game played by people we don’t know at places we used to go.* Man children risking their health and future playing the game.
We’ll spend money on it, lots of money. Tickets, tailgating, t-shirts and TVs. We’ll spurn our gainful employment to search out somebody else’s opinion on how they think ‘our’ team is playing. Then we’ll shout in ALL CAPS when they have the gall to have an opinion all their own.
We’ll talk about how terrible our team is while cheering loud and long. We’ll start a website called firemycoach.com if he dares go 7-6, and put him in the hall of fame if a pair of bad calls and a hurricane move him to 10 wins.
We’ll mock the others. People we really don’t know, at places we really didn’t go, we’ll hate because somebody, somewhere decided, “Hey, I don’t like those guys, let’s wreck their train.” We hate them for hating us. If they’d just give us the respect we deserve, we’d feel better about all the calls that went their way, the lucky bastards.
We’ll feel joy of winning, but it pales compared to the pain of losing. We’ll ache for the 9 months it’s not played, and wish the season was over 1 quarter into a bad game for our team.
We’ll lose sleep, yell at people we really do know, and break two fingers punching a bbq grill when the game goes the other way.
It’s the man of constant sorrow who knows true joy, so, we’ll hate our 10 win team for not being perfect, and love our 3 win team because they were plucky.
We’ll complain about the TV coverage of the games, but that’s just contempt bred from familiarity, because we’ll watch for 18 hours straight, with picture-in-picture and a tablet streaming the rare game not actually on TV.
It’s ridiculous and absurd. It knows no logic or reason. But, hot damn, we don’t care.
It’s time for football.
*does not apply to 90% of Alabama fans