Unfortunately, I don’t have universal supremacy. I don’t influence the tides or have the ability to stop disaster. However, somewhere in the depths of my sanity, I feel that I have the power to alter the universe in some way, albeit however minute it might be.
Why is it that on any given Saturday night, I find myself praying to God? Yes, that God, but also another. No, not Buddha, just to cover all of the bases, but to the all-mighty football god that I am convinced there is. Please, Football God, please. Just this time, let my team win. Let them play like I know they can. Let them quiet all of their adversaries. Please, Football God, please.
I wake on Sunday with my stomach knotted as if it were the first day of school. I glance over and spy clothes laid out neatly on my bed. The perfect outfit waits for me as I begin my ritual. Many blinks of the eyes pass as I determine the order in which to dress. Questions swirl in my head as to what to do and how to do it. Can I wear white even if we are away? If I turn the channel, does it sway momentum? If I close my eyes and spin three times, will things turn around?
I picture it in my head all day long. I think about it every minute. Why? What impact does this game of men have on me? Why do I love it so? I can’t explain it, but it encompasses my thoughts, my time. As game time draws closer, it is the object of my obsession. It loops through my brain like bees enveloping a fertile flower.
Oh, the life of the football fan is a mystical one. It makes people crazy, or maybe they already were. But, alas, there are those who just sit back and enjoy the competition; the love of the game. Yep, that’s right, the sane ones. On that note, I must go. Kickoff is approaching, and I haven’t rubbed my bobble head exactly nine times!