I am growing tired of watching grown men act like Neanderthals.
The right tackle overpowers his man on the offensive line, wraps his arms around the quarterback, slams said quarterback into the ground, and gets up and stomps around like he's summonsing a thunderstorm. A tight end makes a nice catch in the middle of the field and stands up to make an exaggerated first down gesture, like he has forgotten there is a referee standing by to explain it to everyone. A running back finds a nice hole, picks up forty yards, and then beats his chest like he has a little lady he needs to get to holding while climbing a really tall building.
Instead of receiving my admiration for making a nice play, they remind me they're just assholes.
I'd like to see a doctor come out of the operating room, beating her chest, because she just saved someone from dying from a heartattack. Saving lives is important. Throwing and catching a ball is not. It is only a sport designed to make a lot of money for entertainment purposes.
The lack of sportsmanship in professional sports is really turning me off. I find myself yelling at the players to get their ego in check more than I yell about a broken play, a dropped pass, or an unexpected score. There was a time when Football Sunday was precisely that: a day where I did little else but watch football. I didn't write. I didn't read. I didn't take phone calls. Yesterday, I spent more time reading than I did watching football. Granted, the book I read--until it was finished--can be described only as phenomenal, but I doubt Ms. Grodstein stomped around her house when she found out her novel, A Friend of the Family, was going to be published. And when Patti Smith won the National Book Award for her memoir, Just Kids, she did not get in the faces of the other nominees and talk shit while beating her chest.
It's called manners. It's called knowing your place. It's called being a decent human being. It's called respecting others. And it seems to be fading into a distant memory.
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