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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
As September embraces us in its chilly, red-leafed bosom, the air crackles with the excitement of a new season of football. Far gone — for most of us; no, you shut up, New York fans — are the fresh summery dreams of baseball pennants and World Series glory. Basketball games are but a foggy memory or a prospect still too far off to consider. And hockey… enh. It’s hockey. Throw some bikini girls on the benches and work in a car chase or something and maybe I’ll tune in. Maybe. For one period. But probably not.
“Swallowing a live Gila monster would be easier than trying to explain something to a three-year-old child. And probably less painful.”
The thing I’ve found about American football — as opposed to the far more intuitive futbol that the rest of the world enjoys so much — is that it’s very hard to explain to someone ignorant of the game. In most sports, you can take a person with a ‘blank slate’ with respect to the rules — a small child, say, or a reclusive hermit, or a lonely native Inuit tribesman — up to speed in just a few moments. Where you find the hermit or Eskimo, and how you manage to interest them in modern-day athletic contests, is entirely up to you. I’d say that using the small child might be simpler — but I’ve seen small children in action, and I don’t want to lie to you. Swallowing a live Gila monster would be easier than trying to explain something to a three-year-old child. And probably less painful.
The point is, as much as I enjoy football, it’s not the most straightforward sport in the world to describe. Forget the nuances of the two tight-end power set or the 3-4 defense; I’m talking about the basics — the things the three-year-old would have to grasp in order to shut up for a while and watch the damned game. I’ll illustrate by first simulating the conversations you might have in explaining the gist of other sports. Let’s start with something simple:
BOXING
Small Inquisitive Child: What are those men doing?
Patient Sports Fan: Well, they’re beating each other to a bloody pulp.
SIC: Why?
PSF: To prove which is stronger. That’s how boxing works.
SIC: Why?
PSF: Because that man with the scary Bride of Frankenstein hair will give the stronger one a lot of money.
SIC: What does the weaker one get?
PSF: Almost as much money. But he doesn’t get a press conference, or a spot on Letterman. Maybe Conan.
SIC: Oh. Okay.
See? Boxing is easy. The kid doesn’t have to know about right hooks and TKOs and whose ear was in whose mouth when. There’s time for all of that. Meanwhile, the tyke can enjoy the brutal simplicity of two men methodically pounding the living shit out of each other for money.
Unless it’s foxy boxing. That’s different. The kid can’t watch that until he’s eighteen.
Let’s try something a little more mainstream:
BASKETBALL
Curious Cave-Dwelling Hermit: What’s that?
Patient Sports Fan: Why, that’s a basketball game.
CCDH: What are they doing?
PSF: They’re trying to put that ball into the hoops dangled over the ends of the court.
CCDH: What happens then?
PSF: Then their team gets two points. The team with more points when time runs out wins the game.
CCDH: Why don’t they just run up and throw the ball in?
PSF: That’s against the rules. Also, that big hulking player with the dreadlocks under the basket would hurt them. Very badly.
CCDH: Interesting. So what happens if they win?
PSF: The team will get a trophy. Also, the one there with the tattoos will get a shoe contract, and their bench players will become minor celebrities for a few months before they go back to bagging groceries and driving delivery trucks.
CCDH: Makes sense to me.
Easy as pie. Someday our little hermit may grow up to become a big hoops fan and learn all about zone defenses and trash talking after monster jams. For now, just deal with the basics. Don’t complicate things.
It even works with the sport many believe to be the most complex and rife with arbitrary, arcane regulations and details:
BASEBALL
Politely Questioning Eskimo: What are these people doing?
Patient Sports Fan: They’re playing baseball.
PQE: What is that man on the hill doing?
PSF: He’s the pitcher. He throws the ball to the batter, over there.
PQE: The batter wants the ball, then?
PSF: Not exactly. The batter hits the ball toward the fielders.
PQE: The fielders want the ball?
PSF: Sort of. If the fielders catch the ball before it lands, the batter has to sit down, and think about what he’s done.
PQE: And if the ball falls? Can the fielders harpoon it?
PSF: Um… no. Then the batter runs toward his base. If he reaches base before the ball, he gets to stay.
PQE: And do what?
PSF: Run for the next base, when the next batter hits the ball. If he reaches the last base, his team gets a run. The team with more runs wins.
PQE: Wins what? Do the victors receive fish and pelts?
PSF: Not usually. Mostly, they receive enormous sums of money, and local car dealership endorsement gigs.
PQE: Ah, well of course. Very good.
Another happy, chilly customer. But for the true novice, it’s football that’s hardest to grasp. There’s a fair amount of background and context that most of us take for granted when we watch the pigskins fly. But an outsider — say, a bug-eyed visitor from the far side of Omicron Perseii VIII — would have a difficult time making sense of it. Observe:
Hideous Probing Extraterrestrial: In what activity are these humans engaged?
Patient Sports Fan: They’re playing a game of football.
HPE: EXPLAIN THIS RECREATION AT ONCE!
PSF: Well, the team with the ball is trying to score by getting the ball into the other team’s end zone. That’s how the score, and the higher scoring team wins.
HPE: ‘Scoring’ in this ‘end zone’ you speak of. It involves the noisy skirted females on the sidelines?
PSF: Not officially, no. The end zone is the area at the end of the field, over there.
HPE: Aha! The ball has fallen in the end zone! The local team has succeeded!
PSF: Um, no. That’s an incomplete pass. The player has to carry the ball into the end zone.
HPE: THIS IS AN UNEXPECTED AND UNDESIRABLE DETAIL! WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED EARLIER?
PSF: I apologize. But that’s as tricky as it gets — if the team carries the ball in, they score.
HPE: You’d better hop– Oho! The ball was caught in the end zone! VICTORY SHALL REIGN!
PSF: Uh… sorry. Penalty on the offense. Holding. No score.
HPE: No score?
PSF: No.
HPE: Oooh — now?
PSF: Interception. Wrong team.
HPE: Now?
PSF: Punt return.
HPE: NOW?!?!
PSF: Sorry, that’s a safety. The other team scores points. But not as many points. But still some points.
HPE: THIS NOTION OF FOOTBALL ANGERS AND CONFUSES ME! I SHALL ORDER THE INVASION FLEET TO DESTROY THIS PLANET, AND THIS INFURIATING SPORT WITH IT!!
So, there you go. Be glad you don’t have to explain football to an alien invader. Or an Eskimo. Or a small child. Just buy them a PlayStation and a copy of Madden, and let them figure it out for themselves. That’s how the rest of us learned, and we turned out just fine.
Permalink | 2 CommentsToday I found myself at home for Labor Day, without any of the three weekday holiday staples. We had no caffeine in the house. There were no tasty animal carcasses to grill. And worst of all, there was no beer.
We don’t mean to live like Neanderthals. Sometimes it just happens that way.
“I doubt I could conjure a good explanation for the EMTs as to why my tongue was stuck to a frozen chicken thigh, for instance. Not another one, anyway.”
To be fair, one of the shortages purported above isn’t entirely accurate. There were various and sundry bits of chicken carcasses in the freezer, left over and saved from a party earlier this summer. But they weren’t pre-thawed, and I wouldn’t know how to go about thawing the things on the fly. Who do I look like, Gordon Ramsey over here?
I suspect an emergency thawing would involve rubbing the parts, or dangling them under steamy water, or perhaps breathing aggressively on them for a few hours. But I’ve never been briefed on the procedure, so I didn’t dare undertake it, lest I have some sort of thawing-related mishap. I doubt I could conjure a good explanation for the EMTs as to why my tongue was stuck to a frozen chicken thigh, for instance. Not another one, anyway.
It’s a moot point, anyway. Without the caffeine, I wouldn’t have had the energy to lug the chicken out of the fridge. And without the beer… well, what good is being home on a holiday to eat in the first place? I got up this morning, stumbled to the fridge, saw no Labor Day beer supply, and went the hell back to bed. I finally got up around seven this evening — mostly to watch the Simpsons. But mostly to be up before my wife got home, so she wouldn’t think I’d schlepped around all day doing nothing.
(What? I did something. I checked to see whether we had any beer. That’s something. Don’t give me that look.)
So my Monday off was fairly tame. It feels weird to be going into work the day after a holiday without a hangover, singed eyebrows, or a citation for public indecency, but there it is. Either I’m getting old, or Labor Day’s just not what it used to be.
I guess we’ll find out soon. Just you wait until Hallowe’en. Boo!
Permalink | 2 CommentsI’m finding that I’m very much a ‘weekday driver’. I have trouble blending into traffic on holidays, weekends, and most of all, Sundays.
I’m accustomed to commuting. I avoid the brunt of the workaday gridlock by going to work late and coming home late.
(I once suggested that going in late and coming back early might work out even better. They suggested that I might enjoy not coming in at all, in that case. I wholeheartedly agreed.
Then I figured out what they were getting at. And I thought I was the only smartass on the payroll.)
“During the week, it’s a nuisance when we have to stop to let geese cross the roads. On the weekends, you’d think the geese were driving the damned cars.”
Still, I’m out and about mostly between the hours of ten in the morning and nine or so in the evening, Monday through Friday. Those are the hours that people are driving, for the most part, to get somewhere. Moreover, they’re piloting their cars to known destinations — offices, schools, and the like — and with established routes for getting there. The vehicles are driven with a purpose, as though the drivers have a goal in their heads
On Sundays, things are different. On Sundays, the vehicles are driven with abandon, as though the drivers have Alzheimers in their heads. They careen across three lanes to make an exit, they stop — literally stop — in traffic circles, and generally meander about as though they didn’t have a care or appointment in the world.
During the week, it’s a nuisance when we have to stop to let geese cross the roads. On the weekends, you’d think the geese were driving the damned cars. How you can afford to lease a Honda on a honker’s salary is beyond me. But somehow, they seem to manage.
This Sunday is particularly tough, because of all the college kids returning to town for the school year. The parents and their minivans are particularly problematic obstacles, because they don’t know the nuances of the local traffic flow, they’re fully reliant on the sketchy Boston road signs, and their vehicles are huge, the better to stuff the kids and the books and the beanbag chairs into for the trip. I was stuck behind one of these beasts at a traffic light during an errand today; I was completely blocked out from the rest of the world. I couldn’t see when the light turned green. I couldn’t see if there were any pedestrians crossing. For a moment, I thought there’d been an unannounced solar eclipse. My car would have probably fit inside their glove compartment. Frightening.
Of course, the universi-tourists have one thing going for them. At least when they’re driving as though they have no idea where the hell they’re going, it’s because they have no idea where the hell they’re going. Unlike Old Man Rogers down the street puttering out for a Metamucil refill in his beat-up old Dodge. He gets to the end of the street, and can’t remember which way the store is. Or why he was going, or where his house is, or how to get the car out of neutral again. And Boston’s a big city — how many Old Man Rogerses do you think there are lurking out there in the suburbs? It’s a veritable motorized minefield.
That’s why I stick to weekday driving as much as possible. It’s a lot simpler. You know that half the people will be driving like hopped-up maniacs, and it’s your job to get the hell out of their way. The other half think you’re the bat out of hell, and they’ll scoot out of your lane as soon as they have the chance. Weekend driving is far more unpredictable, what with the swerving and the honking and the indecision and the general state of higgledy-piggledy. It’s enough to make a guy want to sell his car and take the bus.
But only on Sundays.
Permalink | 1 CommentAnd now, a photo essay to illustrate that I can be a jackass moron, even when I’m not sitting at the keyboard. Those of you who are squeamish about reading about idiots’ near-death experiences or viewing badly-composed grainy cell phone pictures should probably turn back now. You have been warned.
The Elevator
At right is a photo of the elevator in the basement of my office’s parking garage. It’s this elevator that I trudge into every day to begin my day of being shackled to the radiator in my cubicle. Occasionally, if we’ve been especially productive, the overlords will open the curtains a crack, so that we can catch a glimpse of sunlight. Or they’ll skim most of the rat parts off the noontime gruel. Still, it’s better than Microsoft.
(I kid, I kid. I love my job. No, really. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.)
Anyway, this is the elevator. Please to be noticing the low, three-foot railing along the walkway leading to the glass door in front. We’ll be discussing that later.
The Door
Here we have a happier pic — the view from the elevator, taken while leaving the building after a hard day’s slaving. The glass door is almost within reach, and freedom — sweet, sweet freedom — is just beyond.
I’m a little giddy, just thinking about it.
Again, notice the low metal railing past the door. That’s just about to come into play.
The Car
Now, we’re through the glass door, and in sight of the getaway vehicle.
(That would be the Nissan, not the much fancier car located beside it. The overlords are generous to us peons, but not that generous.)
At this point, the only barrier between me and a delicious three-day weekend is that low black railing. Being just a tad excited — and not the oiliest stripper on the pole, so to speak — a thought occured to me, bold and daring:
‘I bet I could hop over that railing, to save a few seconds. I might even click my heels together mid-jump; how cool would that look?‘
These are the sorts of thoughts one has when the ‘Weekend Fever’ flits through the three working neurons one has left. Still — and how famous are these last words? — it seemed like a good idea at the time.
So I burst through the door and made my approach, reaching out for the railing to launch myself over.
The Problem
I should point out that my plan was doomed from the start. I’m about as coordinated as an epileptic turkey, so there was little chance I could execute the sort of maneuver I’d planned. I was destined to end up with skinned knees, a sprained ankle, or busted front teeth, at least.
Luckily, I’m also old and fat and slow, and so had time to see the view at right. The view which includes the very solid and painful-looking pipes running approximately three feet above the railing. Anything larger than a border collie jumping that rail would get a solid conk in the head, at best. A six-foot goober like me would probably catch a pipe in the neck, and probably a railing in the back on the ‘dismount’. Not exactly the way to kick off a weekend.
The Pipes
I jiggled to a halt at the railing and inspected the pipes. They were, indeed, very solid — and important-looking, to boot. If I’d gone ahead with my ill-conceived launch, I might have cut through the water supply for the whole building, or possibly the internet or electrical connection.
This, of course, made me rethink my plans once again. Because really — how cool would that be? I stood for a moment, pondering the likely effects of gravity, acceleration, and small shards of splintered metal on a spongy human body. I weighed that against the coolness factor of bringing a whole office building to its knees ‘accidentally’, and the likelihood that I’d be able to drive away — or limp, or crawl — before anyone thought to check the basement.
The Clincher
It was then that I saw the label in the picture at right. If you can’t make it out, it’s a bright orange sign on the smallest and otherwise least frightening of the overhead cables, and it reads, in a clear and friendly font:
480 VOLTS
I think the cable was also emitting a faint but ominous hum — though that may have just been my spine shivering involuntarily. With that, my bravado shrunk all up inside me, and I walked gingerly around the railing, keeping an eye on those pipes all the way to the safety of my car. Whereupon I sped the hell out of there, and commenced the weekend sans incident, injury, or incarceration. But only barely.
There you have it, folks. Tune in next time for another episode of What Asinine Thing Has Charlie Done Now?. Will I pee on an electric fence? Leave the windows down in the car wash? Taunt an uncaged gorilla?
Only time will tell.
(But I am not touching those pipes. I may even start parking on the street. Yipes.)
Permalink | 3 CommentsHere’s another outlet for you comedy fans jonesing for your yuks: DailyComedy offers a host of ‘staff comedians’, daily and weekly emails, and a boatload of other amusing-to-uproarious features.
“<!– Insert derisive hooting here –>”
They even let no-name schmoes like me sign up and create a ‘Comedy Stage‘, wherein I can post tidbits and snippets for a rainy day. Many of my bits so far have appeared here first, but every once in a while, a ‘quickie’ seems to fit the format over there a bit better. For instance:
“My wife bought me a watch last week. It’s one of those kinetic jobs — it winds itself just by moving it around while you wear it.
I thought it was pretty cool, until I found out it keeps time faster the more you move it. Turns out my wife was just trying to keep tabs on whether I’m secretly masturbating while she’s at work.
I just checked it, and the watch is already an hour fast. Also, it thinks its November. In the year 2048.
Somehow, I’ve got to convince her I’m suddenly epileptic, or I’m in big trouble.”
<!– Insert derisive hooting here –>
Also, I’m proud to say that I’ve just been awarded Third Place in DailyComedy‘s August Photo Caption Contest. So for at least a month, I can pretend that there are only two people funnier than I am. Also, there’s cash involved — third place in this quipping contest nets a cool fifty bucks.
That means that in ten words and thirty seconds, I earned more cash with my writing ‘skills’ than in the three-plus years I’ve been dropping essay-length drivel on the rest of the interweb. I’m sure there’s a lesson in all of this somewhere, but I choose not to see it. If you can’t spend thirty-eight paragraphs saying nothing about a topic, then what the hell’s the point?
Permalink | 2 Comments
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