First Sunday

Nothing quite compares to the first Sunday of the Football year. It’s like Christmas come early; only instead of cocoa and stockings, we’re treated to monstrous hits, stellar feats of athleticism, and the general uproar that causes you to wildly ejaculate at your television all day. Like a relapse into drug addiction, all semblance of responsibility or general coherency takes a seat on the sideline to those precious few hours of that glorious first day of the week. In the season’s infancy, with all the stats wiped clean, the slate of standings non-existent, and the lost hope in a team’s destiny having not yet sunk in. Like a virginal snow untrodden upon, you can’t help but succumb to the visceral thrill that engulfs your being; the undeniable presence of football being underway.

With the epic glories of football comes the frosty chill in the air; the autumn wind that makes goose bumps tickle your skin, and gradually devolves into desolation iciness. Edging ever close towards equinox, each Sunday brings with it a cornucopia of newsworthy stories. Seeing the unimaginable happening before us, as we rage endlessly to duplicate the feats our eyes are wont to believe. There is no greater joy than giving Sunday a true meaning again, as opposed to the dreary pre-Monday doldrums it reluctantly mantles through the rest of the year. Each morning dawning bright with infinite potential, edging into greatness as the sun dies much too quickly in the sky, leaving us with the lone game of the night to satiate our desires until the week begins anew again.

Indeed this is sentimentality at its finest, yet not a shred of remorse blooms in the marrows of my being--for these precious few months disappear all too fast. Like our lives in fast forward, each Sunday comes as quick as it goes, and we soldier on in our own gridiron battles.