I Just Watched Football For The First Time, And I Bet I Could Play Better Than These Schmucks
I could take them to the Super Bowl, probably.
This season’s not looking good. I know I’m just a small bird-like woman sitting at home with a lukewarm Lean Cuisine, but I really think I could play ball better than these bozos. You wouldn’t see me throw pick after pick. I wouldn’t have the audacity to get sacked left and right. What are they paying these mooks for if they can’t win a game? I know I’ve never played organized sports, but one time in gym class I won a kickball game on a technicality and the hottest jock in the junior class, Tony “Jumbo Shrimp Dick” Plumbo, called me “surprisingly average for a last-pick player.” Sounds like a pinch hitter to me.
Who are they even throwing the ball to? The fans? In another stadium? I could throw the ball to the right player. I can throw a ball at least ten feet if given the perfect wind conditions. I, unlike these overpaid clowns, have a game-winning plan. I will simply throw the ball to someone who can catch, or catch the ball from someone who can throw. I don’t see why it has to be more complicated than that. Surely it can’t be that difficult to play a game at the highest level of professional sports.
And these injuries! Haven’t these jabronies ever heard of playing through an injury? So what if your ACL is torn to shreds like a pork shoulder that’s been simmering in a crockpot for nine hours? Rub some dirt on it and get back out there, champ. The game isn’t gonna win itself. I know a thing or two about playing through an injury. In the seventh grade, I sprained my ankle by tripping over myself while doing the “Cotton Eyed Joe” at the winter formal, but did I let that stop me from performing in the school musical the next evening? No, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps, pushed through the adversity, and ended up hitting almost every note in “Notice Me Horton.” It was the best god damn production of Seussical Jr. the county had seen in at least three years. So I guess that’s the difference between me and a “professional” athlete. I’m not a quitter.
Look, I won’t claim to know how the game is played. I won’t even claim to know the nitty-gritty rules of the game, but I’ve got heart! I want to bring the Stanley Cup home to my city from throwing a three-pointer touchdown in the last quarter of the World Series. I’m really starting to think these knuckleheads don’t even want to win. Frankly, it makes me want to never watch sports again. I started watching to feel something, anything, on these cold winter nights. I thought I’d feel a sense of camaraderie. I had hoped to find a feeling of “we’re all in this together” to keep me warm like a heavy wool blanket sewn together by testosterone and performance-enhancing steroids. Instead, I was left feeling an untethered rage that is likely misdirected from my husband recently leaving me for my son’s little league coach.
You call that a touchdown!? No, really, is that what you would call a touchdown? I’m asking sincerely because I’m not entirely sure exactly what a touchdown is. All I know is that I could probably touch down better than that. I could triple whammy, I could go for the turkey, I could slam drunk, I could do the daily double. I, a small angry woman with absolutely no athletic training, could do all of these things better than any of these highly-skilled human machines.
