Blind-side blonde
OK, that may be an exaggeration. "Like" is such a strong word. But I've definitely had the urge to watch ESPN for the past three days.
Now, maybe this is just one of those "confused phases" all teenagers go through. Except for the fact I'm not exactly a teenager anymore, no matter what my pink headbands and McDonald's Happy Meals say.
Anyway, this past weekend I found myself sitting on the couch, watching, actually WATCHING, a sport of some kind. And the difference between this time and all the others is, rather than loathing my entire existence while my father force-feeds offense and defense down my throat, I'm enjoying myself… sort of.
It all started on Saturday, when scrolling through Facebook, I saw a post from ESPN. I'll answer your question before you even ask. Yes, I follow ESPN, but more for their marketing techniques than anything. They have some genius strategies of capturing their audience!
Their post asked what the general public thought of the Notre Dame and Michigan uniforms. The teams were kicking it old school this weekend, bringing back retro jerseys.
I've never been a jock, although I've always thought they were quite attractive, so naturally, while attending college, I went to some Notre Dame football games. Not many, because I would have literally had to donate my organs to afford season tickets, even as a student, but I still had a few under my belt.
So I watched the game to root on my "alma mater" and check out their jerseys. They weren't THAT great. It's better when they play in Kelly green.
Notre Dame was up in the beginning and I was excited! But then, well, whatever… I don't want to talk about it.
My second run-in with the athletic world came on Sunday, after I perused my Twitter feed only to discover Pia Toscano, my personal favorite American Idol from this past season, tweeted that she'd be singing at the Mets game that night. So I turn it on.
Wait a second, that old man singing the national anthem looks strangely like Marc Anthony, who cheated on J-Lo, and thus is not worthy of my attention. Oh, but wait, he can kind of sing… I digress.
Where's Pia?
"Hey dad! When do they sing God Bless America?" I yelled.
My mother rolled her eyes at her obviously ignorant daughter and said, "Seventh inning. Duh."
Oh, well excuse me!
So I settled in to wait for Pia. And in the meantime, I watched a baseball game. Which wasn't that bad… and the patriotic feeling revolving around the 10th anniversary of Sept. 11 kind of made me feel good inside.
Pia was perfection, obviously. If you missed her, you're going to want to YouTube that. Wearing those heels on grass AND landing that final note? That's the stuff heaven is made of.
So, now I move onto last night. As I was shuffling around the house thinking about how useless I have become as a daughter, Monday Night Football comes on. Dad had control of the remote. Drat.
As everyone knows, once the remote is in dad's possession and the TV is on ESPN, there's no turning back. It's stuck there for the next 4,000 hours until he either falls asleep and you can weasel it out from underneath his hand (which always snaps shut on top of yours in a vice-like death grip just as you're about to get the remote to yourself) or you whine enough he retreats to his room, saying muffled words under his breath the whole way up the stairs.
So I watch Fergie butcher the national anthem, and smile as the audience begins to cheer triumphantly for the Stealth Bomber flyover, rather than her strained rendition (what's a "limited partner" anyway? Another term for "I get to sing the national anthem anytime I want, despite a lack of talent?") I then look over at dad in disbelief as I watch Hank Williams Jr. perform the MNF theme song – you old people really think this is cool?
But as the game unfolds, I actually get into it. Is this possible? As I quote a text I did, in fact, send, "Tom Brady's hair looks gross, but darnit, that guy can throw!" Seriously, that was some bullet action.
And as ESPN would later Facebook about Brady, "Yeah, I just threw for 517 yards and 4 TD's. No big deal." See, I told you there were geniuses.
It was at that moment, when I sent the rogue text, I realized I had become someone else. I traced my memory for a possible lightening strike or bodily collision I might have had with someone who actually enjoys this kind of torture, but nothing came to memory. Lightening strikes tend to do that to people though… you know, erase all recollection of the horrible incident. Actually, so do ultra-traumatic events, which this might be qualified as.
Here I was. With my pink tie-dyed shorts, headband in place and nails freshly painted, watching football. And I wasn't bored to tears.
Sure, I don't understand the calls and penalties so much, but I know what a touchdown looks like. And I know it makes me giggle when a player "makes it rain" following a score (or when my dad says, "What was that? The Dougie? I don't know, but it sure was funny!")
That, my friends, could be called excessive celebration, and is generally frowned upon by the NFL. Although, so are red, white and blue shoes, which the general public considers a sign of patriotism. But who am I pass judgment?
Oh, and I have to mention the announcers, who help me understand what's going on as well, since they seem to cater their dialogue to the insanely clueless and intellectually unstable. No wonder my dad hates them so much.
So the sports adventure will continue. We'll see how far into the fall I actually make it. I don't know the players, what they do in their positions, or most of the time, what sport I'm actually watching… but I'm trying.
And if all else fails, I've decided I'll just watch, cheer and look cute in a pink jersey.