The Religion of Football

Growing up in the South, fall meant football. I remember my dad rising early, taking a deep breath, and proclaiming, “Yep, smells like football weather.” That first crisp, cool morning of autumn had snuck in under the cover of darkness and kicked those dog days right off the porch.

Football weather meant road games, marching bands, cheerleaders, and an excused absence from church on Sunday. You see, even the Baptists have to admit defeat at the alter of the pigskin. That’s why evangelical wing-nuts never mention back-slidden fall football fanatics when listing gays, lesbians, liberals, and feminists as the cause of hurricane Katrina and other natural disasters. It’s just one of those unwritten laws like black-eye peas on New Year’s and not wearing white after Labor Day.

The three-day sabbath begins on Friday night with the local high school team. We were the wildcats, the mighty wildcats that could never seem to muster more than a meow. At one point I remember being 0 – 36 in varsity boys’ sports. My idea of victory was scoring with one of the other cheerleaders…aw, foreshadowing.

Saturday service was spent passing the barbecue plate with the Southeastern Conference. The apostles of Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, Auburn, Florida, Mississippi State, Kentucky, Vanderbilt, Arkansas, South Carolina, and LSU…on any given Saturday anyone of them a Judas.

On Sundays we rested…with the Falcons, the Packers, the Dolphins and the Steelers.