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The first
rule of Monday Night Football is you don't talk about Monday Night Football.
Used to be you couldn't rebroadcast any part of the game, and that seemed fair.
Now they say "any pictures, descriptions or accounts of the game without
the NFL's consent [are] prohibited." The Voice tells you that in every
game. Keep in mind that lawyers who get paid NFL salaries don't dick around
with imprecise wording, particularly the word "any." It means
"one, some or all indiscriminately of whatever quantity."
So to clarify: When you're scooping icy sludge from a backed-up sewer line in
Iowa on a Tuesday morning, and you turn
to your coworker and describe the Vikings-Panthers game as "a riot of
color, a hideous clash of teal and purple," you may soon be facing NFL
sanctions. More likely, NFL thugs will suddenly appear and beat you with your
own shovel.
To clarify further: "any pictures of the game" include the plays
you fingered onto a fogged window, and the cheerleaders you sketched on
cocktail napkins, and those images in your dreamy head where you're Doug Flutie facing a nickel defense.
Stay safe: Forget everything you ever saw and heard on Monday Night Football.
* * *
Houston Texans Quarterback B.J. Symons reveals his
favorite new flavors of Skoal smokeless tobacco:
Fudge Dip
Bacon Blend
Hillbilly Chum
Grilled Cheese Chaw
Pinch of Pork Rind
Hot Buttered Crumpet
Peanut Butter Swirl
Potpourri
* * *
Monday Night Football's commentators can talk about Monday Night Football all
they want. They have special powers. John Madden started the Korean War, and
it still hasn't ended. Don Meredith has diplomatic immunity in 47 nations,
including Syria and Bahrain. O.J.
Simpson not only gets away with murder, but also cannibalism and shoplifting.
Dennis Miller has an indestructible sense of high self-esteem. Al Michaels
and Lisa Guerrero are changelings -- shape- shifters, if you will -- able to
transform into any form of animal and water, respectively. Dan Fouts can fly. Dan Dierdorf
doesn't have any special powers per se, but he does have skills, both mad and
evil.
Perhaps most impressive of all is former NFL High Priest Pete Rozelle, who had this thing he could do with his eyes
that enabled him to command entire armies of the undead. It is said that his
name appears on the original manuscripts for both the Papyrus of Ani and the Bardo Thodol. If you haven't yet read those works, you should.
* * *
Baltimore has this raven mascot, Poe, named
after a poet who died in one of Baltimore's many famous street gutters. Poe,
the mascot, does all the standard mascot capering,
but really he's not all that amusing. I can't put my finger on it; he's just
not funny. I think the NFL is aware of the problem, which is why I commend
them for sticking with Poe as part of their ongoing efforts to combine
football with literacy.
Imagine the enormous potential for literacy campaigns if all NFL teams chose
literary mascots. Dallas might play better with the Lorax
on their sideline. People might respect Detroit if they adopted a character from a Dostoyevski novel. And what Oakland fan could refrain from joining a
cheer led by Anne Frank?
All I'm saying is we got to do whatever it takes to get football fans to
read, because reading is fundamental.
* * *
More than 30 miles of radiant-heat pipes snake beneath the turf at Lambeau Field, maintaining a ground temperature of 70
degrees throughout the winter. The system is crucial to traditional halftime
entertainment, which consists of several children from the Make a Wish
Foundation parading onto the field. They're allowed fifteen minutes to warm
their cockles before fullback William Henderson rips open their sternums and
feeds their still-beating hearts to snarling badgers in a ritual designed to
appease the Great Spirit of Vince Lombardi. What most people don't know,
however, is that without the ritual, the pipes freeze up, and William
Henderson hates playing on a cold field.
* * *
I had this friend once. His name was Billy. He talked about Monday Night
Football. One cold Tuesday morning in September 1996, while we forked hay on
Sweetwater Farm, Billy started talking about Monday Night Football, said the
Colts beat the Dolphins ten-six. He said it was the dullest game he'd seen in
his life. About that time, a mule kicked Billy upside the head, knocked him
dead before he hit the ground. Colts, mules -- I didn't need schematics to
see the connection: The second rule of Monday Night Football is you don't
talk about Monday Night Football.
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