From the other room comes sound that can be measured only on a Richter scale. Decibel levels don't do it justice. It reverberates through the floorboards, shaking the foundation of the place I like to call home.
It seems this is the only way the males of my household are able to enjoy the pastime of televised football.
Nevermind the fact that the whole day thus far has been spent in the lively pursuit of watching the US Open and car racing, oh no! We must now have our stadium-like experience of contact sports in the form of college/high school/pee wee/pre-birth football. And we must cheer along with the crowd as if we were there, and we must coach the team for which we are rooting as if we are being paid enormous sums of money to do that very thing.
Have I mentioned I am not much with the sportsified end of things? Because really, you could pretty much chuck it all in far reaches of the sea on the south side of Bora-Bora, and it wouldn't make no nevermind to me.
I am obviously an avid fan of anything having to do with the taxing of the physical body in the act of feats of endurance, cunning and competitive play.
I'm special that way.
And lucky me, I get to listen to this for the next SIX MONTHS. Because whatever game is on whatever channel at whatever time, we'll be there!!!
Honestly, I couldn't be more proud to be an American at this very moment, where at least I know I'm free to leave the house and visit whatever Wal-Marts is handy at whatever time "the game" is on.
Thank you Lord, for the 24-hour window of time at our local store.
Amen. And Amen.