Sundays at the Sigman Casa. Football and a variety of pork-centric edibles. Bacon and hashbrowns for breakfast. Ham, pan fried potatoes (in bacon grease), and baked beans (with bacon bits) for dinner. If you listen closely you can hear my tiny arteries screaming...
I'm also pretty sure if I broke a hard sweat right now, it would give off a smokey aroma with just a hint of maple.
Now I'll be the first to admit that a few years ago (which means 10) if you'd asked me anything about football I would have dismissed your craziness and quickly changed the subject. But you can only sit through so many games pretending not to care before some of the excitement begins to seep in. Then before you know it you're checking stats, calling plays, and wrestling your husband over who's the better armchair quarterback. Me.
I love the game. I admit it. I love the pure raw power of a 300 lb. mountain of muscle leaping into the air,
or the sheer beauty of an athlete running full out down a grassy field to dance in the end zone.
It is magnificent. These men are modern day Gladiators, playing in arenas, through pain and at times impossible weather conditions, to entertain us. Which makes us the Romans. Think about that.
However, I do have one complaint. It's the language of the game, obviously invented by a man, and makes no sense at all. There are so many 'downs' to the 'down'. What the hell? And don't get me started on how a team's position in the playoffs is not called a 'seat' (like I thought and which makes sense) but a 'seed'. Are we planting a garden here?
Football will never be perfect until a woman rewrites it. And would it really be so bad if it were touch instead of tackle?
Kidding, just kidding. Happy Monday.