As long as I can remember — which is usually about as far back as yesterday’s lunch — I’ve suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Granted, it’s probably way down the list of my disorders, but it’s about to kick in big time.
Seasonal Affective Disorder, also known as SAD or as the winter blahs, is primarily caused by reduced hours of sunlight which was mandated by Obama-era officials trying to curb global warming. Fortunately, Donald Trump says that if he is elected, he will pass a note to his jail guard demanding that Congress pass a law creating 23 hours of sunlight, eight days a week.
It’s also too cold. I’m a shorts and flip-flops guy. Yes, I know it’s not like Vermont or North Dakota cold or even North Georgia cold, but anything under 65 degrees is basically Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia to me — a place so cold they have to burn consonants just to stay warm. (It used to be Ulakanbajatar.)
One thing, however, keeps me going through most of fall and winter — football. Something about seeing men run into each other in a fun effort to break each other’s knee ligaments and instill brain damage just warms my heart.
After this Sunday’s Super Bowl, though, between the San Francisco Purdy Boys and the Kansas City Swifties, I’m going to be without football for months, and I’m gonna be super-SAD.
Oh sure, I could watch the UFL, which is a new league formed by the merger of two failed alternative football leagues — the XFL and USFL — which is a lot like mixing expired milk with rotten strawberries and hoping for a delicious milkshake.
Or I could watch the NBA, but it’s gotten so boring that they not only play music during breaks in the action, but they also play music while they play. I sat through an awful lot of high school basketball games during my early sports writing days, and, yes, the Valdosta High School girls basketball team could have used a little music to fire everybody up back in 1992. But the highest level of a sport shouldn’t need entertainment while it is going on. No one plays the cello while Tiger Woods tees off at The Masters. (If they did, they’d be risking their lives.) And no one belts out a sax solo while Coco Gauff is serving at the French Open. And Steph Curry never dribbles across the stage in the middle of a Billy Joel concert.
There is the start of the baseball season coming up. But that season is just excruciatingly long, making it less of a season and more of a vigil as we wait to see which team has the fewest arms fall off in September and October.
At least we have the Olympics this summer, and it’s always exciting to see the traditional sporting competitions just as they were with the Greeks back in 776 B.C. — especially trampoline and breakdancing. Yes, those are Olympic sports now. But I’m boycotting the Olympics until they adopt my suggested sport of Breakdancing on Trampolines.
Thankfully, I do have ice hockey. I’ve always loved ice hockey, but I especially fell in love with it during the minor league Columbus Cottonmouths’ glory days in the late 1990s and early 2000s. A few years ago when the Vegas Golden Knights advanced to the Stanley Cup finals in their debut season, my wife got excited about all the pregame Vegas-style fanfare. Now, she’s a Golden Knights fan. She went from thinking icing was something on a cake to now watching TV and screaming, “Shoot it, Marchessault!! You’re wasting the power play!!”
Hopefully, hockey can get me through to the next NFL and semi-pro college football season. It is fast and exciting and there are plenty of bone-crushing hits. But the Knights are based out West, so too many of their games start at 10 p.m., way past my bedtime.
I’m afraid that the only way I’m going to get to witness good old-fashioned brain damage until football resumes is to watch the next congressional hearing on C-SPAN.
Unfortunately, they don’t have a fantasy league for congressional insanity. But if they start one, I’m drafting Marjorie Taylor-Greene first.
p.s. — The Chiefs will win this year’s Super Bowl yet again. A friend of mine knows Taylor Swift’s bus driver’s barber, and he has seen the CIA-approved script.