Football is my heroin.
Dear NFL,
I’m a jilted lover. You’ve taken my heart every 6 months since I was five. You’ve loved me, treated me right, and bought me flowers every Sunday–you even gave me Brett Favre, for God’s sake! But now, you’ve left me. I’m not good enough for you, which you made obvious by moving the Pro Bowl (however terrible it is), the last glimpse of any football that I will see until August, to the week before the Super Bowl. How dare you. How dare you take my sports life, and do that to me. You hurt me bad, NFL. But like a woman stuck in an abusive relationship, I’ll be back. I’ll be waiting around for the next six months, sapping up every off-season story I can handle to the point where my brain will explode from NFL-ness. From Brett Favre’s “I’m retired. No! Wait, I’m not!” to whatever NFL player decides to kill someone with their vehicle to what’s going on with the Collective Bargaining Agreement. I’ll be there. I’ll be outside your house with my Vikings jersey on, playing ‘Pants on the Ground’ out of a boom box.
I can’t quit you, NFL. I love you too damn much. From the first pre-season game to the Super Bowl–I. Am. Hooked. The massive hits, the rivalries, the trash talking, the absolutely awesome atmosphere at the stadium. I love it all. Yea, baseball’s fine for some. Basketball looks good every now and then. But NFL, you are the meat to my proverbial potatoes. Without you, I’m actually going to have to find other things to watch on Sundays. And now I hear that you may not be back in 2011, because of a lockout. You selfish mother f—–. Don’t you know what joy you bring me? Don’t you know how giddy I get when I see NFL commercials on TV? Don’t you understand that I can’t go more than a few days without seeing Brett Favre’s stubble-laden face? Isn’t that more important than the richer teams getting richer?! Isn’t that more important than a guy making 13.5 million a year instead of 13.1?! I recently read an article that stated that there is actually only 10 minutes and 41 seconds of action in an entire 3 hour game. You know what though? That’s the best 10 minutes 41 seconds of my life. I live and die by your whims, NFL. Don’t do this to me.
I also hear that you’re trying to go out with England… What’s that about? Isn’t America enough for you? Don’t we pay you enough homage? Don’t you love us any more? We made you what you are, and now you’re going to try and betray us with a country that, for the most part, hates you? For what? A few extra bazillion dollars? For shame, NFL. You used to be cool.
Damn. Who am I kidding? I love you, and I’ll be right here waiting whenever you decide to come back. You saucy minx, you.
Love,
Victor
