My Name Was Michael (inside joke)

This is the first Sunday of the NFL. It’s the only weekend of the year when I wish the weather was twenty degrees cooler. It always rains and when it stops it’s eighty-five degrees outside and humid. That’s not football weather. Football weather is cool and crisp. There’s an autumn smell to the air. We don’t get that down here until after Halloween. In the grand weather scheme of things, the trade off is worth it, but right now I want it to be cooler. Maybe I’m just jonesing for the change of seasons, or as close as we approximate in the South. I’m ready for it to be dark at five. Maybe I’m just nostalgic for the Sunday get togethers at my grandmother’s from when I was growing up. That was more than thirty years ago. That was before I moved down here; it’s the baseline for my football watching. We would go over to her place after church and the game – singular, no NFL ticket – would be on the air craft carrier sized, wood paneled, color TV – as opposed to black and white for those under thirty – with the pre-cable rabbit ears. She had the fancy rabbit ears that were about four feet long and came with an eight position knob that would turn the ears forty-five degrees per click. My mom, aunt(s), and uncle(s) would torment their mother, mostly because it was so easy and she begged for it. There would always be lots of food and lots of loud chatter. It was metro-D.C. so the Redskins were always on, but my mom’s family is from Pittsburgh so they didn’t care because they were all Steelers fans. We didn’t even really watch the games. They were just on. It’s weird because I remember the colors of the Redskins helmets so vividly. It’s physically impossible but the maroon and gold seemed so much more vibrant on her 1970’s television than they do on my 21st century HD television. Maybe that’s just part of being a kid, but I’m still trying to recapture that feeling. I just hope I can.