Here's what I imagine those guys say to themselves while they're playing: Hey, let's see how many huge dudes I can hurl to the ground tonight! Cool, another guy with a concussion! That's eight this season. Woo hoo! And don't you love my shiny breeches? Yeah!
I'd rather watch a nice fencing match.
Last night Lars sat down on the couch to watch a football game. He patted the seat next to him. I obediently sat there. And my eyes proceded to glaze over.
I think he was watching these dudes called -- what is it, the Patriots? And they were playing against some kind of horses, only they were really guys in shiny breeches, with HUGE bare arms in the frigid night air. O-kay.
I might have seen three guys get knocked out.
Lars said, "The sad thing is, a lot of these guys will end up with brain damage."
"Good thing they'll be able to afford full-time nursing care," I snapped.
Lars turned to me with raised eyebrows. "That was not nice."
"I know. Especially after I held that gun to their heads and MADE THEM PLAY FOOTBALL."
Anyway, my hatred for football has provided Lars with his best and most enduring cocktail party anecdote. He trots this one out a few times a year.
It was superbowl time (Oh, Joy!) about what, eightyears ago? We were still living in Boston. And those Patriot dudes, in their shiny breeches, were playing against some other shiny-pantsed dudes whose names I have forgotten. Evidently this was some sort of big deal.
Lars gave me the sad puppy-dog eyes so I sat down with him to watch. And promptly fell asleep, waking briefly every time Lars yelled or leaped up in his seat. After an hour of this I was ready for bed. Sleeping on the couch is for the birds.
So I informed him I was leaving.
"What????" You can't!"
Readers, I was TIRED. And BORED.
For some reason Lars finds this story infinitely amusing (at least, he did after he got over being mad at me), and worthy of sharing with just about anyone.
* I stand corrected. By Lars.