Who knows? Maybe I’ll read a book.
Or write one, now that I’ve been freed, so early this season, from the obsessive demands of football.
I could paint a bedroom. Patch the skylight. Repair the deck. Train my dog Jasper to cast absentee ballots in Hialeah. Stacks of unread New Yorkers no longer look like the daunting challenge they seemed just a week ago before I discovered a gaping black hole in the space-time continuum.
Hours normally allocated to a stupefied regard of football teams, those with names that slander the reputation of a certain bayside city, have come free.
Sure, the annihilation of all hope made for a dismal weekend. But the effect was liberating. Now there’s time to embark on the intellectual marathon required to understand the 11 proposed state constitutional amendments lurking on the November ballot.
Our legislators obviously figured that if they stuffed the fall ballot with long and incomprehensible amendments, voters would never get around to deciphering their true sneaky intentions. All that changed this weekend after a combined score of 82-23 — with the two teams associated with Miami accounting for the punier total.
Without the slightest thought that a football team named Miami will confer glory on our community, I can devote my spare time to comprehending quantum mechanics or David Rivera’s financial disclosures — but not both.
Not that there was all that much hope before this weekend’s dual debacles. A winless pre-season hardly required a panel of ESPN prognosticators to suggest that these weren’t the ’72 Dolphins redux. And the Hurricanes were crippled by disillusioned recruits and player desertions during this interminable wait for justice from the NCAA (an organization corrupted by billions in TV money deciding how to punish a team corrupted by a rich jock-sniffer’s pocket change.)
The odd psychology of a Miami football fan, circa 2012, inoculated me with low expectations. So I was much better prepared for this weekend’s humiliating outcomes than say, some Wisconsin cheese-head watching his Packers get pummeled. I was only mildly depressed when the Dolphins went down, but the failure of the Super Bowl champs sent Giants fans wailing to their psychotherapists and stockbrokers (often the same persons in New York). After New Orleans lost, I heard that the Saints fans turned to drink.
But down here on the cul-de-sac of forgotten dreams, one learns to squeeze little driblets of optimism out of a humiliating thumping. If only the Dolphins had played a team of puny, pituitary-challenged linemen, then our new quarterback could pass without bouncing the ball off his opponents’ headgear. Watching the Hurricanes, I kept thinking that there’s nothing wrong with this team’s defense that a really, really skilled lawyer couldn’t fix.
But I realize, after a black weekend in early September, that the time has come to discard football from my priorities list and pursue other futile causes. Maybe I’ll try texting my teenaged daughter (actual conversations might take another season). Or cobble together a lasting romantic relationship. Lasting, that is, until the Miami Heat render all that stuff obsolete.