"Writer In The Sky - The (Occasional) Continuing Story"

“Writer in the sky

 Making time go by

 Keeping out the thought

 That we are really high.”

“Congratulations, Earlo.  You wrote an entire “Airplane Song” without mentioning the word ‘die’.”

Thanks for reminding me.

“No problem.  Enjoy the flight,”

We are traveling to my hometown for a family Bar Mitzvah.  Current temperature in Toronto:

A shoe size. 

(If you’re a “Nine.”)

I’m a terrible (expatriate) Canadian.  Every year, I resolve to watch “The Grey Cup”  (Canadian football’s Super Bowl) on TV, and every year, I forget.  They announce the results on ESPN and I go, “Oh, man!  I missed it again! ”  And apparently the Toronto Argonauts won this year!  I would have really enjoyed that. 

Because I’m such a big fan. 

I can tell because of the genuine anguish I feel when I go, 

“Was that yesterday?”

It was on Channel six hundred and two.  How could I have missed it?

Okay, here it comes.  An opinion I have mentioned before for which I’ve received zero blogatoriral backing, which is this:

Canadian football is better than American football.  

Come on!  Who’s with me?

I am not saying the Canadian football players are better.  They are, I readily acknowledge slower and smaller.  (And hence, consequently, worse.) 

The homegrown participants previously played at Canadian universities, against student attorneys and eye doctors seeking a break from their onerous studies.  They may scratch a footballatory itch for a couple of years, but it’s a whimsical “Holding Pattern”, before lifetimes of contracts and cataract surgery.

I shall not re-litigate the reasons Canadian football is better than American football.  (See:  For easy recovery, “Why Canadian Football Is Better Than American football.”  You’re welcome for the convenience,)

Okay, one reason.

The end-zone in Canadian football is, like, 25 yards deep.  In stupid American football, it’s 10 yards.  Leaving American football teams no room to maneuver when they get close to the goal line.

A Canadian quarterback can say, “Go deep!” and loft a scoring spiral into the back of the end-zone.  The same pass in American football would wind up in “Row W.”

Overall, I am cutting way down watching football.  (Which is quite easy with Canadian football, as I keep forgetting when it’s on.)  As with Law & Order SVU, which I gave up because I can no longer accept dramatized sex crimes as entertainment, I can similarly no longer ignore the serious serious injuries in football.

It’s like the Coliseum out there, the participants continually carted away on stretchers.  (Giving an encouraging “Thumbs Up” as they depart, to reassure the crowd and because their two thumbs are the only demonstrable body parts that are still functioning.) 

I once saw two major injuries on one play.  The two injured players were on the same team.  I bet there was a lot of yelling back in the dressing room.”

“You are supposed to hit them!”

I know nobody makes people play football.  In the Coliseum they had no choice.  The gladiator-slaves could not say, “I would prefer to work in the kitchen.”  They could not even choose, “Beasts or people.”  It was whatever came out of the tunnel.

The thing that – now in random snatches rather than entire games – magnetically entices me back to football is that, between the huddles, the time-outs, the tedious “Replays” and eyeballing “First Down” measurements,

There is inevitably explosive action.

The surrounded quarterback running for his life, “threading the needle” to the waiting receiver.  The spectacular kick return.  The breakaway run amid onrushing tacklers.

There is no similar sustained rush of excitement in baseball, a game I generally prefer.  It can happen in hockey, but if you’re watching on television, you are unable to see it.  (Imagine football, covered with one camera.  That’s televised hockey.)

That’s the one hold that football still has on me – those electric occurrences. 

Oh my God!  (As others proclaim, but infrequently me.)  You know what that just now reminds me of?

It reminds me of me and my brother.

From a comedy performance perspective, that is exactly the way we are:  He’s football – randomly explosive – and I’m baseball – steady and strategic.

Did I mention I prefer baseball?

Look at that – an illuminating insight in the air.

Seems like a suitable place for an ending.

Although there are still three hours to go.