The Player and the Ball

The truth behind every player and his need to score- as related to football and the world of love and loss.

Super bowl Sunday. I watch as the players bound across the field after the tiny, insignificant brown leather s**t ball. They throw themselves into each other with all their strength- forcing every solitary ounce of weight collected on their bodies onto the men in front of them, and for what? To capture a beat up, overpriced and overpraised, stupidly-shaped ball? I watch in scorn and utter distaste and wonder if this idea of throwing objects around- running full force towards something only to toss it away moments later- is a characteristic of all men.

I check my phone, pressing the familiar indented circular home button causing the screen to light up… Nothing.

What am I to you exactly? I think. Am I just some ball, just a little pawn, in one of your sick and twisted mind games?

 

The other people in the room erupt in a chorus of “Ahh”s and “Yeah!”s, jumping from their seats and clenching their fists as they throw their arms above their heads in jubilation because some dude caught the damn pig skin, but I don’t care who wins because in all honesty, they all suck. Instead I sit and watch, feeling sorry for the ball.

Why is it that the big bad men have to wear extensive and thick padding to protect themselves from pain and injury while the ball gets thrown to and from, with each clenching catch and thrusting throw loosening the raw stitches binding the leather together?

The crowd erupts again, and this time I can’t help but feel silent, stone-like anger spread throughout my body and anchor my feet to floor in protest. Cheering echoes through the enclosed garage as the heavily armored man makes the ultimate play. Cheering, wild animal like cheering- proving the player with a reason to keep playing.

On the screen, the alleged hero stands and slams the sad brown ball into the ground in an obvious play of pride and excitement. He did it. He made it to the end zone. He scored. And now he can walk away, joining go join his teammates, gleaming in delight and honest confidence in his technique, all well leaving the ball he worked so hard to carry so far laying there in the grass.

I want to scream at Lewis or Flacco or whoever the hell our “hero” is. How dare him just walk away. I mean, he can’t just leave it there.

But he’ll never listen. He’ll always be too caught up in the game, looking for the next big play.

 

And what about the ball? What about all the torment she endured to get to reach that moment, to carry her man to the glorious end zone? Passed, poked, prodded, tossed from one “man” to another, just waiting for someone to carry her home. She’s  the object they fight tooth and nail for. She gets beat to s**t, stiches broken- ripped apart. She gets destroyed time and time again because, lets face it- these big bad men aren't fighting for her, they're fighting for the score.