Bill Walsh College Football

One day I was talking to my dad and he said that he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that he may hame made a mistake as a father by not having taught me to shoot. Usually he says these things when I’m defending vegetarianism or talking about food in general, but dad learned to take down a moose with his teeth and goddamn if his son would never learn where food comes from. To this day statements like that sometimes haunt me. What if I had been raised like that? An urban survivalist kid, taking trips into the woods with my custom compound bow and downing bucks with with my pa and brother? Would the ability to put 10 shells into a target the size of a man’s fist make me more of a man? Would it make me confident? Would it make me vote Harper?

Rarely does the issue of firearms come up anymore, the last few times were call centre military enthusiasts, working the phones every day just waiting for the minute they could haul their cases back home and smell cordite whilst slaying imaginary game. There’s something incredibly dorky about that kind of focus, especially when combined with tall tales about how you could have been a navy seal. Even though you’ve never been in the military before. And you have asthma.

You can only punt rush on midsummer's night when sol is strongest.
You can only HB toss on midsummer's night when sol is strongest.

But I digress. There is nothing that makes me feel inadequately prepared for life in North America more than Football. It’s cryptic nomenclature and pages of arcane statistics mean little to me, exes and ohs and lines on a whiteboard with meaning somewhere, but meaning that is not for me.

The menu took an embarrassing amount of time to figure out. I guess sports games have an option where you can have both players be computers so you can watch simulated epics play out in mode-7 on your tv. Pressing any button while these happen takes you back to the main menu, leaving me scratching my head for a good 5 minutes.

Once you get in the game, the confusion and horror washes over you fully as you realize that without the benefit of years of highschool practice or a sports scholarship to state, you, player, must try to win a football game. Your heart catches in your throat and you feel something akin to those dreams where suddenly you’re driving a bus but YOU DON’T HAVE A LICENSE FOR IT. Each kick, pass, and tackle drill your lack of preparedness further into you and next time, player, you might not have the hubris to attempt simulated sports adventures without a little hustle.

That said:

That guy knows.
That guy knows.
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