Lamentations
THE SUNDAY afternoon drowse that comes with watching pro football is an American birthright. Give us liberty or give us death. But either way, give us pro football on Sunday.
Even when not invested in a particular game—perhaps especially when not invested—there’s something about the soundtrack of a game on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the shadows lengthening and air chilling, supper perhaps having begun its own pre-game warmups in the kitchen, that causes worry to fade into the ether.
“No, honey, not sleeping. Yes, paying attention. Please leave the TV on.”
The game has changed, and a lot. But its grip remains tight. Despite the NFL’s best efforts to make pro football a young fans’ game, those of us addicts needing a Sunday football chaser will remember the days of single-bar face masks and injured players practically dragged off the field so play could resume.
And we just can’t let go. Because what it is, is football. It’s Josh Allen, all 6-feet-5 of him, hurdling a linebacker. It’s Patrick Mahomes pulling game-tying scores out of thin air and 13 seconds.
Of this, the NFL is well aware. And because of it, we suffer through the 10-minute replays, the stingers requiring an on-field MASH unit, rules relegating actual defense to mere theory, games in London, the off-putting fusion of football and pop culture, Thursday Night Football (well, actually, we can live with that one) . . .
And we long for the Sonny Jurgensens, the Paul Warfields and the Jack Lamberts, the Mike Singletarys and the John Rigginses; for Bears-Vikings from the Met in a snowstorm (thank heaven, still, for Green Bay and Buffalo). For three division winners and one wild card; for football under the shadows of the Arch and the setting sun in San Diego.
We miss, dare we say it, the Washington Redskins, and Redskins-Cowboys on Thanksgiving day. Now, that was a rivalry.
We yearn for old RFK Stadium in D.C., once the most college-like venue in pro football, and we miss tackle football applying to every player, including the quarterback. We long for the call— any call—from Pat Summerall and John Madden, and fondly remember the infield dirt on the gridirons at those SwissArmy-knife erector sets like Candlestick, Three Rivers, Oakland-Alameda and yeah, the Met.
And we’d happily go back to the days when names like Empower at Mile High and GEHA Field at Arrowhead were still being workshopped.
We suffer these various losses and indignities, yet still … Just. Can’t. Let. Go. Because what it is, is football. And Roger Goodell, standing at the street corner under the soft buzzing glow of a flickering streetlight, separates the C-notes from the $20s and smiles. And waits for next week.