Are you ready for some football? I reckon most men would say, “Heck yeah!” while their poor wives just shake their heads and start counting down the days ‘til the Super Bowl when they’ll get their TVs and husbands back. I suppose there are a few adult males out there who don’t care much about football, and if they want to sit around in their lacy underpants and watch pseudo-sports like golf, that’s just fine and dandy. But here at the Crow’s Nest, football is the only game played on my TV besides an occasional Spurs game.

What about baseball, one might ponder? I haven’t watched baseball since the days of Johnny Bench and Pete Rose. Life is too short to spend three hours waiting for something to happen. I get tired of watching some millionaire throw a fastball. If I want to see someone throw a wicked curve, I’ll come home drunk with lipstick on my collar. Maw can throw a frying pan farther and faster than Nolan Ryan ever tossed on the mound.

Yep, now that football season has begun, I am happier than a tick on a wino. College ball on Saturdays and the NFL on Sunday and Monday night. If my beer fridge is fully stocked and I have a big bag of ranch-flavored cholesterol, I’m a happy camper for five and a half months. I usually have to wear a name tag in February to remind Maw of my name. During football season, she calls me “Hey, You in the Recliner.”  

Now, you’d think I’d be all enthusiastic about this football season, but after two weeks of games, I have a few bones to pick with certain sports reporters and TV analysts. We football fanatics want to watch the games and be informed of important stuff like an injury status of our favorite quarterback and the scores of other games. What we don’t want to hear or read is insignificant conjecture from sports commentators and reporters who apparently spent too much time in Colorado where the high altitude and legalized cannabis have resulted in brain damage.

Is there anybody that hasn’t been living in an underground bunker in Montana who doesn’t know that former Missouri Tiger Michael Sam is gay? We know and most folks with an IQ greater than their shoe-size don’t care. So why must every sports writer put the term “openly gay” in front of Sam’s name? The guy is a gifted football player, and hopefully he can help the Cowboys defense this season since Jerry Jones can’t hold on to skilled players because he’s spent too much money on Botox.

We don’t read about other players’ sexual preference, so why must reporters keep using the “openly gay” reference?  You never read about any obese offensive lineman being openly fat, or certain NFL coaches as being openly stupid in their play calling. If you ask me, there’s a mess of sports writers who are openly narrow-minded if not openly homophobic. 

Another group of sports reporters who have shoved a burr under my saddle are the ones who started predicting what four teams will appear in the college playoff bracket this season after just one week. And then, these guys who must’ve suffered from numerous concussions will predict who will win the Heisman. Why must TV commentators fill airtime with fluff (normally, I’d use the term “cow flop” but young’uns might be reading this paper) that has little credence to the game at hand? Who cares what some analyst who can’t hold a head coaching job thinks? If he knew more about football, wouldn’t he still be walking along the sidelines instead of sitting in an ESPN studio?

So, as I sit in my recliner, cold beer in hand and salty crumbs on chest, I will be content with watching football with the volume turned down so I can enjoy the game without idiotic commentary. And allow me this moment to apologize in advance to Maw for ignoring her for the next five months. I can’t help it because I am openly crazy about the game of football.  

Clint Younts spent his childhood throwing the football with his three cousins on his grandparents’ ranch, where he now lives. The games were infamous – at least in the minds of the four.

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