What is it about the NFL? To quote a golden oldie, "I don't know why I love you like I do, I don't know why but I do." It is so macho, those enormous hunks of manhood. What you see is what you get, and in any given game you get an astonishing display of machismo.
Once out of the tunnel, but before the game begins, there is always an intense male bonding ritual. The team assembles and one member, probably the captain, whips his fellow team mates into a frenzy with grunts and groans in a language known only to the chosen few. Jumping up and down as if on pogo sticks, they shout "who, ha, who, ha," waving those heavily muscled arms in the air, declaring both to themselves and to the world at large that they are the greatest. They have worked for months on the practice field, they have studied the tapes, and the opposing team is TOAST. "Who ha who ha".
I like the beginning of the games best, when the team runs on to the field from a steamy tunnel, like so many gods, sulfurous apotheosis wearing helmets. Helmets yes, but never long sleeves. Even if it is below zero, those muscles, covered in tattoos, are hanging out for the world to see. A wide variety of hair styles cascade below those helmets: long blonde curls, dreadlocks, tangles, etc. Poor Tom Brady endured so much criticism when he let his hair grow. A friend said she wanted to send him a pair of shears. It was rumored that he had gotten hair plugs during the off season. It was rumored that Gisele was turning him into a girlie man.
Once out of the tunnel, but before the game begins, there is always an intense male bonding ritual. The team assembles and one member, probably the captain, whips his fellow team mates into a frenzy with grunts and groans in a language known only to the chosen few. Jumping up and down as if on pogo sticks, they shout "who, ha, who, ha," waving those heavily muscled arms in the air, declaring both to themselves and to the world at large that they are the greatest. They have worked for months on the practice field, they have studied the tapes, and the opposing team is TOAST. "Who ha who ha".
My hero, Vince Wilfork
Then, and only then, the game begins. With so much testosterone on one field, it is miraculous that anyone survives. They bang into each other like rams, but there is a method to the madness which can all be explained by the x's and o's on the chalk board. It is a giant chess game on steroids. When things are going poorly, the game is a slug fest, one long wrestling match. But when things go well, when the quarterback is in "the zone," when receivers are in the right place at the right time, the game is poetry in motion. I love it and will be very depressed when the season is over. It happens to me every year.
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