IN THE GAME
With this Saturday just chock full o' big games, my superstitions are going into overdrive. I just can't trust the players and the coaches of my teams to prepare as best they can and play as hard as they can. They need help from me -- they need that cosmic mojo that only I can give. Therefore, should they win, it will be in no small part because of whatever obscure and ridiculous gametime rituals I can concoct.
But what should I do to ensure victory? On one message board that I frequent, a young man said that when he and his friends watch their beloved college football team play, they arrange products endorsed by the head coach around the television set. You know, sort of like cultists bringing offerings to an altar. But it carries with it some risks. Most college football coaches in the South endorse such things as high-fat foods and lumber products. So it's entirely conceivable that that ritual might lead one friend to stunt eating (messy, with a high probability of projectile vomit and/or heart attack) and another friend to using a two-by-four smash up your residence during pivotal shifts in the game.
Maybe such rituals are half-hearted. After all, these superstitions smack of pagan rituals, so maybe we should plunge into paganism wholeheartedly. Maybe we should court damnation to guarantee victory. Maybe we should make living sacrifices to the football gods. Take an adored pet -- or the neighbor's dog, whatever -- cut its heart out and offer the still-beating organ up to an idol with three heads: Keith Jackson's, Bear Bryant's and Knute Rockne's. The ritual is of course accompanied by chants of "Whoa, Nelly."
Unfortunately, the only animal I could sacrifice is Pimp Kitty, a beast utterly secure in his worthlessness. If I were to approach him wearing robes of my team's colors and brandishing a butcher knife, he might look alarmed for a second, but then he would just smirk and curl up dismissively. "Go ahead, moron. Offer me up to your football deities. Once I'm cast into their Olympian realm, whining for food and defecating all over the hallowed halls, they're going to want some payback. You'll be lucky if your college team is able to beat even a fourth-place Pop Warner team after the gods get their revenge jones on."
So maybe I should just watch the games and shut up. But I'm keeping the butcher knife handy.
With this Saturday just chock full o' big games, my superstitions are going into overdrive. I just can't trust the players and the coaches of my teams to prepare as best they can and play as hard as they can. They need help from me -- they need that cosmic mojo that only I can give. Therefore, should they win, it will be in no small part because of whatever obscure and ridiculous gametime rituals I can concoct.
But what should I do to ensure victory? On one message board that I frequent, a young man said that when he and his friends watch their beloved college football team play, they arrange products endorsed by the head coach around the television set. You know, sort of like cultists bringing offerings to an altar. But it carries with it some risks. Most college football coaches in the South endorse such things as high-fat foods and lumber products. So it's entirely conceivable that that ritual might lead one friend to stunt eating (messy, with a high probability of projectile vomit and/or heart attack) and another friend to using a two-by-four smash up your residence during pivotal shifts in the game.
Maybe such rituals are half-hearted. After all, these superstitions smack of pagan rituals, so maybe we should plunge into paganism wholeheartedly. Maybe we should court damnation to guarantee victory. Maybe we should make living sacrifices to the football gods. Take an adored pet -- or the neighbor's dog, whatever -- cut its heart out and offer the still-beating organ up to an idol with three heads: Keith Jackson's, Bear Bryant's and Knute Rockne's. The ritual is of course accompanied by chants of "Whoa, Nelly."
Unfortunately, the only animal I could sacrifice is Pimp Kitty, a beast utterly secure in his worthlessness. If I were to approach him wearing robes of my team's colors and brandishing a butcher knife, he might look alarmed for a second, but then he would just smirk and curl up dismissively. "Go ahead, moron. Offer me up to your football deities. Once I'm cast into their Olympian realm, whining for food and defecating all over the hallowed halls, they're going to want some payback. You'll be lucky if your college team is able to beat even a fourth-place Pop Warner team after the gods get their revenge jones on."
So maybe I should just watch the games and shut up. But I'm keeping the butcher knife handy.
posted by John Parnell at 11:48 AM
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