January 30, 2009 | Sports
Some people are casual NFL football fans. That is, they flip by it en route to Weather Network barometric pressure readings and pause for a quick glance up the miniskirt of a particularly comely cheerleader.
We’d like to reach out to those people, not literally, as we don’t know where their hands have been, but in the spirit of inclusiveness ushered in by the new president, to give them a few choice insights that’ll make the 8 and a half hours of programming that much more palatable and necessitate fewer ‘bathroom’ or ‘smoke’ breaks.
First off, there is no ‘bowl’….The trophy consists of a football perched obliquely atop a stand. There is no chalice, goblet, or any other type of potentially liquid-containing vessel to speak of, which doesn’t seem appropriate somehow given the Niagara Falls-like volume of cheap swill that is consumed over the course of a Sunday, but we digress.
The two teams battling for bragging rights over this non-bowl are the Pittsburgh Steelers (black and yellow) and the Arizona Cardinals (red), the former one of those old-timey clubs inextricably linked to their town’s rugged, blue-collar industrial, rust belt, crime-ridden roots and the latter, a team based in the desert.
The Steelers date back to when the game was played with a large piece of stone procured from an open pit mine rather than a ball and their star players were named Biff, Scout, Rosco, Tex, Gopher and Lenny. They wear black, are hyper-aggressive, vicious and generally win more often than they lose. By contrast, on the other side of the ball, are the Cardinals, not the powerful guys who can elect a pope, but the ones who are likely to shit on your feeder and get a mauling from the family pet. They’ve been terrible ever since the desert was made fit for human habitation (a point which could be argued if you’ve ever actually set foot in Phoenix)
The big, lumbering, slow-witted looking guy who looks like he should be delivering parcels for UPS or fishing things out of your eavestrough is Ben Roethlisberger (Roth-liss-burger). He is the quarterback, a star player for the Steelers and will be the recipient of much blame should his team lose on Monday (much like you will be that same morning, as you’re trying to uncross your eyes and focus on your boss’ dressing down, mid-hangover)
On the other side of the ball, Kurt Warner shares a hairstyle with his wife, is prematurely grey, scowls a lot and looks considerably older than anyone else, including the referees.
Speaking of which, don’t be alarmed by the referees addressing the crowd directly rather than the PA announcers like in other sports. There are so many rules in football (some of which we’ll get into here) so if hand signals were actually used exclusively they’d be more difficult to decipher than than a clandestine Crips prison yard meet up.
Here is the basic rule of football. Your team tries to carry the ball into the other team’s area (end zone) while the other team tries to smack you around so badly your evening’s repast will be through a tube in the closest ER. The former is accomplished by throwing the ball to members of your team (don’t be alarmed by the numerous times Ben Roethlisberger throws it to people wearing jerseys other than his own) or having the particularly skilled ones run through the opponents like an obstacle course. That is to say, if said obstacles actually moved and with a sense of purpose—possessed by that kind of ‘roid rage not alleviated by a dose of preparation H—to put you on the other side of the daisies (which would grow in the off-season if it wasn’t for artificial turf)
If you cannot get the ball into the other team’s zone, but are close enough to their goalposts, a weasily guy with a uni-bar helmet who looks like he’d be stuffed into a high school locker (or for that matter, the professional football one that bears his number) comes onto the field. If he kicks the ball between the two posts, that’s a score, but only three points as compared with the more conventional, crossing the end zone threshold, which is 7 (well, oh nevermind). Unless blessed with some kind of prosthetic foot, which would traumatize a TV audience should it ever be dislodged, these kicks rarely exceed a distance of 50 yards.
In order to get to the other team’s end zone, you move in increments that sound like little pills that might be fished out of a house frau’s medicine cabinet: ‘downs’. When you have the ball, you have 4 chances, or ‘downs’, to advance the ball ten yards (and/or ideally, into the other team’s end) or you have go give it to your opponents for them to try. This is accomplished by a punter, a guy who is only slightly less wimpy than the other kicker and whose responsibilities are not nearly as important.
So, there you have it. Basically, each team tries to get the ball into the other team’s end, each with 4 chances to earn 10 yards. If they don’t manage this feat, well, the ball is punted to the other team and they try. Before each play, plans are hatched as to how best to amass these 10 yards (or ideally more than that) in a huddle, an agglomeration you might encounter at your average back alley cock fight.
Playing the halftime show is Bruce Springsteen. He’s known ironically as ‘The Boss’ as most of his songs have to do with how shitty it is to punch a clock (perhaps not the right sentiment to be expressed in the depth of a recession). Singing backup and playing guitar is a Soprano’s henchmen from the eponymous show, who covers his receding hairline with a piece of fabric that looks like it would be lifted off the table at Madame La Rue, Psychic Reader [for our list of 2008 psychic predictions that went hilarious awry, click here]
So, there you have it. We Shark Guys look forward to a spirited contest, are hoping for an underdog upset, but at the end of the day don’t particularly care one way or the other.
As a Bills fan I as of late have enjoyed the freedom of choosing the teams I’ll route for with reckless abandon. Despite the lesbian hairdo and bible-thumping ways of the QB, I’m delighted to say ‘Go Cards’! Enjoy the gmae – CHEERS!
Thanks Canucklehead…and thank you kindly for the link…
The Cards definitely have the potential to be the next perennially Superbowl-losing team (Go Bills!! And incidentally, who names their team after something everyone loathes and tosses in the trash? The Buffalo Dollar Bills doesn’t really flow off the tongue)
Enjoyed your Year of the Ox piece. Never Mind The Bull OX.