Don’t worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon.
– John Madden Before we get started, I want to announce that I am 4.8 pounds away from pizza. I recently set myself a weight-loss goal that when reached will allow me to reward myself with something other than mushrooms and mung beans.
So, if I can maintain my diet a bit longer, I get a big pizza pie with lots of cheese.
My goodness, Pavlov was right. I need to put that out of my mind right now.
So, let’s talk about football. I don’t watch as much as I used to, but I grew up with it like most of this country’s male population … and a fair percentage of the females, too, I suspect.
According to Statista.com, 28 percent of U.S. consumers say they watch three to five hours of football on television per week; 17 percent say they spend almost no time watching it; five percent say they watch at least 16 hours.
I’d say our sports writers, Lance McCurley and Brendan Koerner, probably watch more than 16 hours a week if you factor in all the high school games they cover. Now, I’ve been in the newspaper racket for most of the last 25 years, so I’ve seen a lot of high school football games myself. But that started way before I went to work for my first newspaper.
When I was 4 or 5 years old, my father used to take me to games at old Avondale High School. He was too cheap to buy tickets, so we watched the game through the fence at the north end of the stands.
I don’t remember much about the games, but my dad seemed to enjoy them. Avondale was a powerhouse in those days, winning three state championships between 1958 and 1976. The Blue Devils were also state runners-up four times.
The school was closed in 2011, and the campus is now used by the Dekalb School of the Arts. (Trivia: country singer Ray Stevens is an Avondale alum, as is politician Stacey Abrams, valedictorian in 1991.)
As I got a bit older and understood football a bit better, I would watch games on Sundays with my dad, who was a Falcons fan.
One Sunday when I was 12 or 13, he invited a man named Charlie over to watch the game. Charlie brought a case of beer and must have gone to the bathroom at least 37 times during the game. I wondered why anyone would drink something that caused your bladder so much work.
When I went to my first Atlanta Falcons/New Orleans Saints game, I learned the same principles of frequent bladder relief applied to live games, too. By the third quarter at least 100 men had lined up in the restroom nearest our seats at Atlanta-Fulton County
Reporter Stadium. The excessive consumption of suds and the presence of so many Louisiana natives made the atmosphere in the restroom oddly festive.
I also went to a Falcons/ Raiders game on Sept. 19, 1982, and the entire crowd got festive near the end of the game. An NFLPA strike was imminent, and all the players on both teams met in the middle of the field in a display of union solidarity before the game.
When the Raiders eventually took a 38-14 lead in the fourth quarter, the fans began to chant at the Falcons: “Go on strike! Go on strike! Go on strike! Go on strike!”
The Falcons and the rest of the league obliged them.
Games did not resume until the week before Thanksgiving.
I was married when the Falcons finally made it to the Super Bowl in 1999, but my wife was upset with me and told me she was not going to allow me to watch the game at our house.
“What! Wild Horses can’t stop me from watching that game!” I countered.
I watched the game in a cheap motel room. The highlight was probably Cher singing the National Anthem, after which the Falcons lost 34-19.
We shall not mention Super Bowl LI, or the man they call the G.O.A.T. who now plays for the Buccaneers, except to remind readers that male goats will sometimes urinate on themselves to attract females. And they don’t even drink beer.
My alma mater lost to North Carolina on Saturday and the Falcons lost to the Saints 27-26 on Sunday, so I don’t feel the least bit festive as I sit here at my desk— without any beer. Before my mood darkens further, I better wrap this up with a word of caution about the toxic effects of too much football.
If you are among the five percent watching football for 16 hours or more each week, you probably need to admit you have a problem and seek serious counseling before you develop a 40-hour-a-week habit like I once had. I told myself that I wasn’t addicted to football and that I could stop watching anytime I wanted. But I knew I’d hit rock bottom when I found myself watching the Lions of Finlandia University, a Division 3 school on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, playing the Ripon Redhawks of Wisconsin.
Anyway, it’s now time for my dinner of cauliflower and kale. Pizza awaits!
Selah.