I have been a football fan since I was little. I like the crack of the tackle, and also what that contact represents. It’s the crispness of the aggression. The ballet of steel and power, the driving ahead, the impossible bounce of the ball that swings momentum like a wrecking ball. Grace under pressure, broad shoulders, snug pants, white shoes, and speed. The player is as big and as strong as he can be. He uses one hundred percent gravity to become the opposite of gravity. It is athleticism and power and drama of the game, the teamwork, movement and personality of its players.
Perhaps my childhood football fantasies were bigger still because I was a girl. Because I knew that I would never actually be able to play.
I was a physical, athletic child, refusing the pink Barbie aisle in favor of cowboy outfits and cap guns, but at the same time I was mooning over Drew Pearson’s sweet smile on a Dallas Cowboys rookie card. I could have it all in watching football. And it made me different, it made me feel special. I traded cards with a boy around the corner, and played pick-up football with boys at the park (until they realized I was a girl). Read More