I love clichés. Adore them. I’d go as far as admitting that I’m addicted to them.
I have finally come to the conclusion that it’s the fault of the National Football League. Of all of the sports I watch, football gets most of my attention.
I know the basics of the game. Ten yards to make a first down. Seven points for a touch down, three for field goal. I know what an illegal block in the back. I imagine I know what it feels like to get ejected from a game after an illegal hit to the head; that seems to happen at least once a game this bowl season, and all of the calls are really close.
This just demonstrates that I often get side tracked from the game itself to look at the players and what the players are “made of.” The Seminoles, for example, is relying on a first year starting senior, and they talk about the metal in his stomach, all that he’s been through while waiting his turn. Is it possible to write about the players without clichés?
“Light in the boundary.” I know the definition of each of those four words, but putting them all together and I have no clue what the football commentator is talking about. Does it dilute my enjoyment? Not at all. “Changing the Culture. Buying into the program.” Now, those are phrases that ring clear. Culture is bad when it comes to mold and strep. I’m going to put Blue Cheese in that category. You’ll forgive me, won’t you? Just shows you where I stand in terms of being cultured.
Since I’ve already stepped on some toes, but that’s what happens when wearing open-toed shoes, I might as well continue stumbling about while wearing my army boots. I’m hoping that by the end of the weekend, I’ll have the pairs cleaned up and bagged up and out the door and out of my life.
The first time I studied Sports and Society, introduced to the over-worked phrase, Socio-economic Status. Statistics support the cliché and stereotype that tennis is a rich person’s game. Yes, I had access to a tennis court, tennis equipment, but mostly I played against the backboard. Tennis lessons were never in the budget.
Okay, so now I have to contradict myself. Now that I have painted a picture of poor pitiful me, all by herself on the Brodrick Tennis Court. Tennis wasn’t in the budget because of hockey. Hockey can’t be an upper crust sport. It’s so violent. Equipment. Ice time. Expensive. Pond time down the street is free, but organized teams rent the facility by the hour. For all of the years I played, I’m at a standstill and can’t remember if practice was for an hour or two.
Time. A segue to my title. (Will I ever be able to use that word without having to look it up? Segway lines up with my phonetic philosophy.) I suppose basketball uses milking the clock as they try to possess the ball for the entire shot-clock. Basketball gets my attention sometimes in March. I’ve not seen a entire Celtics games in a few years. Just a short while ago, Boston Bruins lined up the Hall of Famers, and I have to admit that when Terry O’Reilly came out, my heart skipped a beat. I’m assuming Bobby Orr was introduced, but I missed all of the single digit guys. It’s hard to think of Phil Esposito as being 73. (You know you have made it in this life when Word Programs recognize your name. I was trying to get away with Espisito, since that’s how I pronounce it.
The finger of blame is pointed at Boston’s dialect. I’m a suburb kid, so the accent isn’t strong. I can sort of do the Boston “Park your car in Harvard Yard”, but without any of the r’s. R’s are reserved for words that don’t have them, like idea. Quarter is probably my most favorite word to demonstrate accent.
Students will disagree.When I was at Churchill High School, the kids told me that it sounded like I was talking about Meth in the Math class. Meth is not in my vocabulary. It didn’t really take much to get these guys of task, and since tangents and stories are my strong suit, I had to be vigilant to stay on course.
I’m feeling embarrassed. I explained the milking the clock, keep the ball out of the enemies hands for as long as possible. But Burning the clock or time is not an even rhythm of bells, but the bell is bouncing around my brain in a random and irritating manner. Burning the midnight oil insinuates time, but that’s got nothing to do with football. Burning the candles at both ends. Who uses candles anymore? Maybe some carry on the tradition in having centerpieces for the dining room table during Christmas and New Year’s. We had a row of pine cones that I did my best to dust, but there are a lot of grooves when it comes to cones. (My brain is trying to self-correct in that I am probably supposed to refer to the cone as a Fir Cone and not a Pine Cone. Muscle memory is really good for sports, but not so good for remembering facts.)
Once again I am going to end my blog abruptly.