Sunday. Super.

It's Sunday.  That means football.

Rah.

I have never been a spectator of sports.  In fact, I am not athletically inclined at all. And I guess I should be thankful that Bob is really only interested in football - although he watches the Final Four and the World Series too.  But Sundays and Monday nights are (for what feels like way too long) all about football.

At the moment we have two teams: one purple, one white with a splash of blue, focused on a ball that they will carry for a maximum of 30 feet, at which point far too many guys than are necessary all jump on each other and lay there for several seconds for purposes I cannot imagine - other than they are all trying to get the benefit getting a load off their feet and engage in some sort of group "rest".  Someone in stripes blows a whistle and these guys peel off the human pile to reveal the guy they all piled on - usually still alive.  Sometimes he still has the ball.  Occasionally it works out differently - like now - one of the white with a splash of blue guys is being carried off the field.  Were it me, I would pray for that moment because I think you get to keep the money anyway.

A few times during the game either one or both teams cross their finish lines - finally - and they get 6 points.  And then they can kick it over a big vaulting thingy and get an extra point.  And who came up with 6 points?  Why not 3?  12?  8??  Or why not one?  I think its because getting 6 points sounds so much better that 1.   I suppose it's because all that effort for only one point hardly seems worth it.  Although I think the money should be enough to keep them all encouraged.  

And really guys - y'all know it is only 1.

A lot of old guys sit behind a desk and talk relentlessly about the game with the enthusiasm you'd think would be reserved for talk of girls.  And a lot of the players wear their hair all pulled back in long cornrow braids.  I'm thinking that they are just asking to have their hair pulled.  Today, they are all wearing hot pink socks, towels, and gloves in honor of breast cancer awareness month.  How supportive that is - in a kind of weirdly unexpected sort of way.  I try to imagine how Babe Ruth would react to that.

At the end, the winning team pour ice cold water on each other.  For that reason alone, I would throw the game.

But in a show of support I sit here with Bob and listen to him get all excited and I smile pleasantly.  But my mind is on almost anything else.