|I got the moves like Jager. The dog, people. Jager's a dog.|
"This isn't a football [image of a football]. This is a football [image of a soccer ball]" -bumper sticker on a minivan.
I noted this particular bumper sticker on a family member's vehicle some time ago. Way back when our kids were, well, ... kids. And my brother-in-law was a soccer coach for a small town team.
I wondered then about the ballsiness of it all. Is it ok, I thought, to start a semantics war against something so all-American as the sport of oblong balls? Sure, I can see that a soccer is a foot ball of sorts; I give him that one. But isn't it also a head ball sometimes? And what else could one possibly call Football, other than Tuck the Pig in the Armpit and Run Like the Devil is on Your Tail Ball? You'd have to go all acronym and even that doesn't make sense and there's probably already a Hawaiian volcano or something called TTPITAARLTDIOYTB.
And speaking of kids, while rearing my favorite kid during all his tender years, I only permitted one television in our home. My philosophy at the time was that watching the Stupid Box was already a passive event where you didn't have to think for yourself, but it was also a distraction from being a healthy family unit.
If we're going to neutralize our gray matter, we'll do it together as a family, gosh darn it. And in the same room, too. A family that zombifies together, stays together, right?
And I gotta say, it generally worked out reasonably well. We all picked up some mad skills over these years. Things like negotiation, problem-solving, bribery tactics and who can actually shout the loudest until the neighbors come by to check on us. A billion two channels available on cable. Three people.
And one television.
|Ok y'all, this is a touchdown. This spot. Because the ball touched it.|
[on hold music] instrumental to Stairway to Heaven*
Ok, yeah, we're good.
Besides, the dogs had a ballgame of their own to entertain the masses. By masses, I mean me. I watched the goings on for awhile and have to admit -- I have no idea what the rules of play were. It's like they were making the whole thing up. You know, like how you play Monopoly when you can't be bothered to count out the money because it involves math.
The only thing I could figure was that Euka had to have the ball. Or else.
Or else not have the ball. That works too.
Our polar bear princess is not only faster than the freight train that is Micron, but she also has some mean agility. Mike will be right on her tail, rather literally, when Euka will throw in a right turn, leaving the big guy to eat snow.
This is Euka's specialty of Spin Past the Fire Ring.
And here we have the Holy Crap Maneuver.
So this is obviously not a football game. But what? Oh, don't be silly, calling it Pawball won't work because the dogs carry the thing in their maws.
Snooterball, then? Hmmm.
|I call this .... Snowball.|
*For real, I heard this as elevator music somewhere. How did we allow this to happen? This is exactly how societies crumble, people.