Are you kinda sorta ready for some football? Yeah, me too

Now that the NFL lockout is over, I have to scramble to make other arrangements for my Sundays. I swear, this is a bigger inconvenience than that time I won a Yugo in one of those claw arcade machines.

I’d already fixed my calendar in the hopes the league wouldn’t come back for a while. The absence of pigskin fever would have allowed me to venture out to sports bars on Sundays with a good book, whilst taking advantage of free quesadilla and beer specials. Maybe jog around Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia without fear of being pummelled by a shower of beer bottles and worse. I was going to call into local sports radio shows on Sunday afternoons to chat up soccer. Horde all of the deeply discounted football jerseys in anticipation of the NFL musical I’m writing, “Oklahoma! Ain’t got a Pro Football Team?”.

The possibilities were endless.

Don’t get me wrong, I like professional football just fine. It certainly beats the hell out of college football, which is nothing more than a glorified work release program where champions are determined by ballot boxes that would make Hugo Chavez cry foul.

And unlike the GOP, professional football is here to stay, which is mostly a good thing. Because it keeps guys like Ray Lewis from completing his degree in sociology. It allows fans to drink responsibly until they arrive at the stadium the morning of a game. Without pro football, Brett Favre would be sexting constantly, rather than most of the time. The Cleveland Browns wouldn’t be around to remind the locals that winning in January isn’t such a big deal if Lebron is so good at it. What would John Madden be doing if he wasn’t calling pro football games? And would we be comfortable with such a prospect? And how would the average American be expected to know where Wisconsin was located if not for the World Champion Green Bay Packers? Okay, most of them still aren’t aware that the Packers play in Wisconsin. But at least they know Vince Lombardi discovered it.

Taking all this into account, I may have been a little hasty when a pal of mine asked me if I wanted to go in with a group of guys on an October game in Baltimore. As soon as he told me the Jets were coming to town, I said no thanks. Hey, I know how this turns out because West Side Story happens to be one of my all time favorite musicals. I hope to hell a guy named Tony isn’t starting at QB for the Jets, I really do.

Next he asked me why I hadn’t signed up for Fantasy League. To which I responded that I’ve never signed up for Fantasy League and I’m sure as hell not starting now. To me a Fantasy League which does not include Vera Farmiga, Halle Berry, Natasha Henstridge, Scarlett Johansson or Olivia Wilde is not a Fantasy League . . . it’s just a league.

And excuse the hell out of me, but I make it a point to save the good beer and dip for female company.

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