Hut, hut

Finally, we're here again. Time to fasten that chinstrap and dust off all those welcome clichés:

-"When these two teams get together, you can throw the records right out the window. They just plain don't like each other."

-"I know I can count on every one of those guys to watch my back as we go to battle. If I got caught in a war in a dark alley, I know they'd all be behind me."

-"We're just gonna leave it all out there on the field today...110 percent for sixty minutes, which is actually 66 minutes."

-"I just want to thank my personal savior, Jesus Christ, for allowing me to rush for 107 yards and three touchdowns, and secure a two-year deal with Gatorade."

I love football, I really do. But when you examine the true nature of the sport and the ultra-serious demeanors of the coaches, players and fans, it seems a little absurd. The players look like real-life superheroes, their shoulder widths exaggerated by padding, their bare biceps rippling for all to see, their tight pants leaving little to the imagination. It all comes across as a little homoerotic. I once heard someone say that the only reason they wear face masks is to be able to bump heads without kissing each other.

The coaches look like they're ready to jump out of their skin, they're so stressed about what's going on out there on the gridiron. They tuck their clipboards into their spandex waist bands as they secure their headsets, looking like they're about to command an Apollo mission. They scream orders at someone, but no one is sure who it is. And it's all as serious as the mean look on the face of the San Diego Chicken.

I realize this is a fairly cynical assessment of the game, but it allows me to see it for what it is: a really fun source of entertainment. And a reason to paint my face.