Every Sunday, I sit in a bar, look up at multiple TV screens and wonder, "What am I doing with myself?"
America is in turmoil -- social, economic, diplomatic woes -- and most of our energy revolves around challenging the spotting of a ball in the second quarter of an NFL game.
Here is an actual conversation I had with a man sitting on the saloon stool next to me last Sunday:
Him: "The ground cannot cause a fumble."
Me: "But it just did!"
A couple of Sundays ago, when I was taking my weekly stroll to the Manhattan bar where I watch the NFL, a 40-ish man approached me on the street, pushing a baby carriage with one hand and walking his dog with the other. And into his cell phone headset, this is what he says:
"You keep telling me you don't like
Frankly, I can't take it anymore.
The problem is this: I love the NFL. But how much longer can I sit back and hear
I have half-a-mind to say, "Bring back
(I've actually tried to monetize my viewing vice: I contacted every NFL TV carrier, offering to be a studio commentator. Not only do they flatly refuse to return my calls, several have attempted to remove their network signal from my cable package.)
How many errant
Sure, I still get joy from watching the
Heck, I've lost 10 months of my life, I believe, to INSTANT REPLAY.
I don't want to tell al-Qaeda how to do its job, but if I'm
It is time to reexamine who we are and why we are the laziest, richest, do-nothing people in recent Western history.
A reasonable American lifetime lasts 75 years or so. That means you are given 3,800 Sundays total, more or less, then you're dead for a month of Sundays forever.
(When I die, I won't be buried or cremated, I'll be stuffed and mounted in an ESPN Zone, hopefully with a good view of the big screen.)
If you are given only 3,800 Sundays in your life, why would you spend 15 or 20 of them each year listening to
As it stands, two-thirds of my Sundays already are gone.
Aren't museums open on Sundays?
Isn't the park accessible on Sundays?
Don't I have a family that lives with me on Sundays?
My goodness, I should bowl on Sundays before I waste another moment hearing an announcer tell me that the punter "outkicked his coverage" or that an injured player is "walking off the field under his own power."
It's time for all of us to get out. Smell the roses, or the asphalt. See the sun set through the smog. Sip a cup of real coffee as you walk past Starbucks.
Effective immediately, I'm not giving up another precious Sunday to the NFL.
Besides, I can now watch the UFL on Thursdays.
A. Pay the man, Shirley.