Let me be clear: I don’t love football. I don’t have a pro team that makes me violent when they lose, a player who I’d smack a grandma for dissing. I read ESPN only when there’s a death or a scandal. While the rest of America packs a fridge and a couch on Sundays, I spend the day shopping or catching up on 48 Hours Mystery or clipping my mother’s cats’ nails. Fantasy teams is a term restricted to porn. I just don’t have the lust for the game, the passion that drives the believers to purchase exorbitant cable packages and helmets to house their beer. But I have a college team, one to which I’m faithful. It’s one I wear face paint, metallic pom poms, and every viable shade of garnet for. I’ve wilted in 100 degree heat for this team, celebrated them to a national championship at their height and defended them when the going got rough. It continues to be rough. So no, I don’t love just football. I love Florida State football.

I love Florida State football because it brought my spirit back. In high school, I was the picture of faith and support. Never a cheerleader or bandie, I nonetheless sat on the sidelines to support our Wildcats. I traveled to away games, forced to ride the hump in the back of whatever Taurus or K Car’s owner agreed to drive. We knew every word to We Didn’t Start the Fire and even cooler, most REM songs, even the ones they didn’t play on the radio. We went to games wearing whatever was closest to J. Crew at the time, filling our falls with pegged jeans, crew necked sweaters and barn jackets. We drank hot cocoa in the days before coffee was cool and screamed in high pitches when a skinny senior got the 70-yard touchdown. We clipped the article when a friend signed on the dotted line for the 1990 Boston College team. For a few months each year, under canopy of blazing red and orange leaves, we loved football.

I went to college the picture of spirit. I wanted to tailgate, to wear gray sweatshirts bearing my school’s name, to eat 7-layer dip out of the back of a wood-paneled station wagon. I pictured college would be what it might have been in the early 60s: letterman’s jackets and all the pomp and circumstance a proud community could display. It wasn’t to be. Football wasn’t a thing at my school; sports weren’t remotely their forte. I spent four years barely existing at that college – scotch taping my university sticker to the back window rather than displaying it proudly. My dissatisfaction was the result of so many things, of course – of a bad academic fit and a heart that was elsewhere – but I hated it. As I’ve heard so many say about their experiences in high school, I couldn’t wait to get out of college. I just knew there were bigger and better things. Turns out there were.

I went to my first FSU game in 1998. Dozens would follow. I don’t think I’ll ever forget those games at Doak; 80,000 fans strong, there wasn’t an open seat in the house. Before each and every match up, a van would drive through town with the opposing team’s mascot impaled on its roof. Tailgating began at breakfast, at times simply a continuation of a Friday night out. Students stood in long lines to translate coupons into tickets, walked in throngs to the stadium, packs of khaki shorts and caps and visors. And these fans were rabid. Both young and ancient, they were on their feet for all quarters, often in the unmerciful panhandle sun, their hairlines dampened by sweat. These people didn’t just love football; they lived it. And I did too. In my mid-twenties, I learned to light a grill and make a proper hamburger. I ate my family’s weight in tater tots and grew something of a right arm muscle from doing the tomahawk chop. I felt the roar of the faithful when we scored and held my head up proudly when we lost. When out of town, I refreshed my browser for scores more than a sane person should. Florida State football gave me a home, a place to pledge my loyalty. Florida State, in its late-90’s heyday, brought my spirit back.

I too love Florida State football because it connected me to my father. Since he was a child, my dad loved the sport. He played it on the farm as a boy, watched his local high school games with great dedication, and while at college at the University of Pittsburgh, found his own home team. He was fiercely loyal to his chosen few – most notably the Steelers – but cheered on our locals, as well. Dad was an engineer and was meticulous, detailed in all things. He was sure to tell me that while New York always laid claim to the Giants, that they weren’t theirs at all, but in fact played in my motherland of New Jersey and were technically “the Football Giants.” I cared not.

As a young girl, I cared about sticker books and grading fake papers and learning to bake muffins with a light bulb. I read constantly and grimaced when he encouraged any physical activity. Soccer? Fail. Softball? I’m glad there isn’t photographic evidence. Dad fared no better with my older sister, a woman who chose books over basketball, nor my mother, who has never, to my extensive knowledge, worn a pair of jeans or sneakers. On Sunday nights, he’d be banished to the den, snack basket in hand, while we watched Murder She Wrote and ironed the next day’s clothing. My father’s loud claps would shake the living room door and I’d grin and wonder just what was so special about men running around on the grass. I’d join him for a few minutes at a time, hoping to gain some insight if only by osmosis alone. Football? It was something of a special club to which only men belonged. There had to be something to it. Turns out there was.

It didn’t happen until I was 28, but it happened. My parents had moved to Virginia by then, to the condo where they would soon retire and where, sadly, my father would pass away in 2008. Home for Thanksgiving, we watched our first Florida State game together. He explained the nuances of the game to me, why running up the middle hardly works and just how far you really want to kick a ball down the field. One game became a few, became halftime conversations courtesy of archaic cell phones and the post-game retelling of where I was when. Over my time in Tallahassee, Dad amassed quite a collection of fan fare: an FSU Dad pin, a garnet and gold foam finger, a pair of truly awful socks that somehow turned out to be a lucky charm. When I was at school for a losing home game, my father would call apologetically, confessing he’d forgotten to don his socks for the first two quarters. I’d instruct him to rectify the situation quickly. He’d chuckle and oblige. It often worked. When I was on his couch for games, we’d tailgate off my parents’ kitchen table and high five when appropriate. When the game wasn’t televised, we’d listen to the live streaming of each play as drives unfolded. And in the days before the dawn of DVR, when a particularly important episode of Something struck my mother’s fancy, my father and I would retire to the den, chips and salsa in hand, to clap loudly until the door shook.

So yes. I love Florida State football. I love it for the pride it brings its fans, for the absurd narcissism it brings its players, for the passion it lends the name of the university. I love it for bringing my heart back to stories about my years at school, for the ties it’s afforded me, for the hangers in my closet devoted to all things garnet and the countless hours I’ve spent drinking cheap beer in its honor. Few things make me as feisty, as defensive in my loyalty. Let the record show that I’d never really smack a grandma for mocking one of our Seminoles. Unless, of course, she was a Florida fan.

When I clicked the link to the article in the New York Times and the title of the article was “Should You Watch Football?” I thought: Is this a trick question?

Should I watch football? Does that question mean to point out that shouldn’t I be doing laundry or writing that article that is due next week? Shouldn’t I be out building habitats for humanity? Yeah, probably, but that isn’t what Michael Sokolove was asking.

Sokolove is asking if we are irresponsible for supporting a sport that is so violent.

Let me back up for a second. This is kind of weird, but I am going to quote myself. This was from a post I wrote a week and a half ago when the NFL announced it was changing some of its rules.

After the brutality of week 5 – James Harrison knocked out two Browns, Dunta Robinson lead with his head and knocked himself out and he took DeSean Jackson out with him, and Brian Meriweather knocked the crap out of Todd Heap – the NFL decided that this cannot go on. It is too dangerous.

The word on the street (and by “the street” I mean ESPN) is that tomorrow the NFL will announce that effective immediately, even first-time offenders face suspension for “devastating hits” and “head shots,” or so says Ray Anderson, the league’s executive vice president of football operations.

That week was bad. Beside the incidents I mentioned above, a college football player was paralyzed form the neck down when he was making a tackle. Nobody wants that, and the NFL is making huge strides to make the game safer.

Football is a dangerous game. There is no avoiding that fact. Knocking people down is part of every single play. Critics think that people should just stop playing football – that it is too dangerous. Concussions can cause brain damage, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, and depression. Spinal injuries can cause paralysis. These same critics are opposed to boxing.

I understand that. I guess. The thing is, football and boxing are voluntary. Nobody has to play football. Every man in the NFL knows the risks.

The critics don’t like it at all. But what about the fans?

Momma Rollett has this all worked out:

There seem to be three basic positions on the issue:

1. Those who feel that the violence IS the game, and that any attempt to make the game safer (or “wussify” it, as some would have it) changes its basic character in an unacceptable manner;

2. Those that don’t want to see the game toned down, but don’t like to see head hits; and

3. Those who think that avoiding head injuries is more important than preserving the “historical character” of the game.

I think I fall somewhere between 2 and 3. I want people to be safe, but part of the reason I like football so much is the physicality of it. It taps into something primal in me.

I’ve been watching football for a long time, and I think the NFL is doing an admirable job trying to keep their players as safe as possible. Almost every season there are new rules implemented that are intended to protect the athletes. I applaud the new guidelines.

Should we stop watching football because it is too violent? Not if we are going to keep watching Oliver Stone films and the 5:00 news.

I was feeling panicked, but it was all for naught. The lights came on again before Game 3 of the NBA Finals.

I am a Magic fan from way back. In fact, the last time The Magic went to the finals I lived in Orlando. The whole city was excited, and for any of you that have spent any time in central Florida you know that there isn’t a lot of rallying around anything going on there. It is mostly people trying to avoid Disney traffic.

Why can I not find a picture of the Mickey Mouse water tower wearing the Horace Grant goggles? That was so cool.

In 1995 Orlando got swept by Houston. It was ugly.

For a few days it looked like The Magic was going to suffer a similar fate this year.

But last night they shot 75% from the floor in the first half. 75%! It was a NBA Finals record. Orlando ended up at 62.5% for the entire game.

[Nathaniel S. Butler/NBAE via Getty Images]

That was a finals record too.

Of course, the game was still won in the last two seconds.

That is how The Orlando Magic won their first finals game ever.

Yes, I believe in magic. I’m just not sure my heart – or my insides can take the excitement if the rest of the games are that close.

Rodney Harrison is currently the only player in NFL history with more than 30 sacks and 30 interceptions. He has two Super Bowl victories and fifteen NFL seasons under his belt.

I think it is fair to say he PWNED it.

Good luck, Rodney.

Can I still even say PWNED? Is that really passe? Am I totally 2008 here? Whatever, I don’t care. My son was up barfing all night. I cannot be expected to be cool unless I am well rested.

[source via Boston Brat]

Living in the DC Area I can say that I don’t think anyone around here would be surprised if the Redskins were guilty. I was talking to a friend of mine the other day who grew up as a Washington fan and even she admits that Dan Snyder makes it hard to root for the Redskins.

Albert Haynesworth is saying that his team is innocent and that everything was on the up and up – but what else can he say?

Washington could lose a draft pick if the league finds out that they were talking to Haynesworth’s agent before free agency.

Jon Gruden is coming to Monday Night Football.

Excuse me for a moment.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

After all of the rumors about Favre and the Vikings it looks like this time #4 really means it.

(Don’t make me look stupid again, Brett.)

In just a few days (hopefully) we will have a new url (http://draftdaysuit.com) a new look, a new platform and some amazing new writers joining our team.

Stay tuned.

Why did he lie under oath? To protect his son.

Now, I completely get lying to protect your kid. I would go as far as to join a cult if my child thought he or she was a deity, but my kids weren’t charged with 23 criminal counts in the last year.

In CANADA! And those guys are tolerant.

Listen, from Deadspin:

Over the last year, 24-year-old Mark Lefleur was tried on 23 criminal counts including: sexual assault, kidnapping, forcible confinement, mischief, theft, possession of crack cocaine, ecstasy and marijuana, threatening to kill a Montreal bus driver, dangerous driving causing bodily harm, and damaging a bus. (He also he faces charges in a separate case of assault and uttering death threats.) Most of the charges stem from his “troubled” relationship with his underage girlfriend. He’s a real catch.

Dude.

So anyway, Guy said that his son never left the house during the time Mark spent in his care on house arrest when in fact, the elder Lafleur drove his son to a hotel to have sex with his 16 year old girlfriend.

Funny, I didn’t even see statutory rape in that list of crimes.

I almost feel sorry for Guy, but not really. Who encourages their 24 year old son (who I am guessing kidnapped this same girl) to have sex with a minor in a hotel when he is under house arrest?

He should have known better.

He was not born yesterday.

How does a man who has not played a single game this season end up on the All-Star ballot?

It is a mystery to me as well.

I’ll bet you $50 Alex Rodriguez gets some votes too.

[source- Lady at the Bat]