I hate football season. I hate the nasally din of blowhard announcers and the monotonous green-turf glow that emanates from my living room for hours on hours, months on months as my husband and son sprawl over the sofa like toddlers, yelling stupid things at people who can’t hear them.
I hate the tedious, arbitrary, meaningless debates that football ignites: Who’s the best running back of all time, why that call was bull, whether the ball was fully inflated — and the notion that one group of large men is incontestably superior to another group of large men because the first group’s jerseys have a horsey on them.
But last week I watched football. And I kind of loved it.