2.9

I have a confession to make, and it's going to be quite the difficult pill to swallow. In fact, I'd even go so far as to label it a suppository, but since some folks might be in to that sort of thing the metaphor would be lost completely. Anyway, you see, I've lived in Knoxville my entire life. "Spawned and occasionally supervised" as they like call it round these parts. I've lived through air so dirty it requires ID verification and a credit card number to be viewed online. I've lived through air so humid that, I swear, has caused at least fourth and three quarter degree burns. I've even lived through a snow or two (seriously, there might have been, maybe, two snows. As in, one "snow" unit doubled. I don't even mean a metric snow unit, either.). But there's something else every native of Knoxville much endure, year after year, that, whether you will it or no, you can't help but pay the slightest attention to. For some, it is an annoyance. For some, a hobby. For the majority it's tantamount to religion. And by this, I mean "football." Football americano. (that last part should be italicized. For effect. That should be italicized too. It's a vicious cycle.) And I like it.

Believe me, I'm as ashamed of it as you are. I mean, I know, I know. It's evil. It's mass escapism with practically Orwellian results, except instead of some Jewish guy we all yell at people who represent supposedly esteemed institutions with the highest regional education opportunities with elephants, chickens, wannabe crocodiles, and, hell, I don't know, los chucabras. Football creates a culture where physical prowess is celebrated more than intellect, ethicality, and creativity. It's not even universal physical ability, only that that pertains to the hunting and gathering of "points" in their "touchdown" pods, like some golden banana. The actual game is tantamount to sadomasochism as males in the prime of their youth run into each other at high speeds, slam each other into the ground, and, I don't know, whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears as they lay collapsed on a field in front of a hundred thousand people in a mound of writhing limbs and truncated desire. But there are often scantily clad cheerleaders, so, you know, none of it's gay or anything.

With that said, I want to hate football, I really do. But, for the intellectual life of me I just can't. It's so devoid of the need for higher thought, so delightfully easy to be swept up into, like a Spanish soap opera except "surprise incestuous pregnancies" are substituted with "Kentucky" (but, really, you say tomato...). It's a time on one Saturday every once in awhile when I can forget the unbridled contempt I meticulously groom within my twisted heart for the rest of humankind, allowing me to actually feel part of something bigger than I am. It's like an insta-community, just add orange. So many people raising their voices in unison towards a common goal. It really is, for better or worse, one of the closest things our secular, disillusioned society has to religion (in the humanistic, celebration of man sense, not the "Thou shalt not miss extra points" sense). The passions aroused are practically the most intense many people encounter around here. I honestly believe the riot after UT's overtime win against LSU in 2005 is the closest I'll ever come to the 1960s.

I'll admit, it's sad. Nigh pathetic. But far be it from me to be the better person and rise above it. It's just another in a long line of guilty, irrational pleasures (next to computer games, hobo extermination, and pants liquidation) that make up the ever so blessed time between class. Because, really: isn't that what college is all about?

Good God I hope not...