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It's Gameday

It’s the second weekend of September; better known as the first NFL Sunday of the year.

I wake up at 12:57 p.m. to the smell of testosterone oozing from my living room. I drag my hungover body to the couch just in time for the 1:00 p.m. kickoff, where it will remain for the rest of the day. 

It’s football Sunday. I’m not talking about dumb European football (soccer) that can be traced back 2,000 years. I’m talking about American football, or better yet, the correct version of football that can be traced back to the beautiful 1920s. 

My testosterone-filled, manly friends and I all sit elbow to elbow in anticipation of watching grown men tackle each other over an oddly shaped ball. We have four different games on, because one is just not enough. I have put our rent for the semester on a six leg parlay bet that is sure to hit. 

If it doesn’t we will be homeless, but it’s all for the love of the game. 

The group of grown men that I root for - also known as my team - is playing a different group of grown men that my friend roots for. 

So, naturally, we hate each other. 

Nothing is off limits when it comes to insults. For example, if his team scores on my team, I might point out the fact that he hasn’t talked to a woman in three months. If my team scores on his team, he would be well within his rights to point out the fact that I am the cause of my parents’ divorce. 

I desperately have to pee, but my team is driving. So I have no other option than to pee my pants. 

Oh well. 

My team missed a 40-yard field goal, which I insist my asthmatic body could have done in my sleep. In my anger, I chucked my phone at my friend’s head, causing him to need 5 stitches. He said he would go to the hospital at halftime, but instead, picked up buckets of food at Buffalo Wild Wings. We now have enough junk food to give us all heart attacks by the time we graduate college. 

The 15minute halftime break is a special time. 

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This is the time where the grown men get yelled at by another grown man that runs the team. If your team is losing, you are permitted to cry in the corner and come up with a multitude of excuses. If your team is winning at this time, you are entitled to mercilessly berate any one of your friends who are losing. 

After halftime, our eyes are back to being glued to the screen. Some of us are hoping for a different outcome, while others are hoping they keep the lead. While there are only 30 minutes left of gametime, it somehow lasts another hour and a half. 

This next hour and a half is an emotional roller coaster. 

My favorite group of grown men score. Then my friend’s favorite group of grown men scored. One of my men gets injured and I cry harder than I did at my grandpa’s funeral. 

My team is losing with time running down. They are driving down the field and there is time for one more play. The quarterback throws the ball to the wide receiver who is in the area that he must be in to score. For some reason, this pathetic excuse of a receiver doesn’t jump four feet in the air over his defender to catch the ball and score. This is a simple move that I have pulled off hundreds of times in my backyard. 

Time runs out and we lose. To say I had a breakdown would be an understatement. 

The things I did and said to my friend who’s team won might make an irreparable tear in our friendship. My phone is through the TV screen. I lit the couch on fire. We lost our rent money in the six leg parlay that somehow did not hit. Three of my toes are broken from kicking the wall. The police got sent to our house because of the blood curdling screams you could hear from the outside. It was the end of all of the 1:00 p.m. games, so this was their fourth house call already. 

After our hospital visit and meeting with the landlord, we all got dinner together with all debts forgiven.

Boy, I can’t wait until next week.