Let the cats and dogs run free in the streets. Closed the window blinds. Lose your minds.
Today is the day.
Skins vs. Cowboys with the entire galaxy watching and more than everything on the line. When the Presidential election occurred last November, I played fatherly with my son, telling him that who won the election was more important to me than any sporting event I watch--and I watch a few million games a year.
That was posturing, total bull, a dad trying to be a dad when even his kid knows his dad is a kid.
The Fiscal Cliff means nothing. This game is a psychological, sociological and interpersonal cliff, which is much more serious. My friends who don't like me, or think I'm obnoxious about the Skins and hating the Giants, will torture me if the Skins lose. I fear tonight.
My son asked me repeatedly yesterday where I planned to watch the big game because he wasn't going to allow me to do so in the house. He would not even permit me to watch in another room in the house than him. Out, he said, somewhere else. He essentially told me to get off my own lawn.
While not a big drinker, I have contemplated squatting in a few bars but there will be people there. It's not a good idea for me to be around any people tonight. I need a TV, a room to myself with thick walls that drown out the screaming I will do when Jason Whitten and Dez Bryant catch TD passes.
Motel 6 sounds about right. Humble, quiet, unpretentious, probably vacant. I'll check in around 4 today, order a pepperoni pizza and sub. The sub will not be one of those low cal jobs from Subway. An old school sub packing at least 800 calories. No pineapple chunks on the pizza; chicks do that.
Outside the Motel 6 there will need to be some sort of sketchy parking lot to walk around to burn off anxiety. Doesn't have to be big. Small would go good, about the size of a Harlem basketball court. Walking in small circles, or rectangles as the case may be, is one of my favorite things to do. It's simple, doesn't require a lot of mental acumen nor toughness. It's light, soothing, like Baileys on the Rocks on New Year's Eve.
After the stroll, back in the room I'll be sure to turn off all electronics. No smartphone, no PC, no tablet PC, no VCR, no digital camera, no GPS device. Just a TV. A 70 inch flat would be good but old school Sylvania would suffice. Around 6 pm I'll slip under the covers for a snooze. How much do you love it that hotel beds have four pillows per bed even singles? You can rest your head on one or two, whichever your druthers, and then snuggle one under your arm as you sleep on your side. By the way, women, men never sleep on their stomachs. The extra pillow is there for show, lying there patiently on the bed in case one of the two under your head doesn't feel quite right. Pillow #4 is the back-up quarterback of the linen industry.
The dreaded kick-off time will arrive around 8:30 because time marches like Navy Midshipmen year after year. Hopefully I'll sleep through the whole debacle, wake up at midnight, purposely not turn on the TV knowing the Skins choked in their most important game ever. I'll drive home, turn on my computer and read about the looming Fiscal Cliff.
That cliff, I will kid myself, remains more important than any football game no matter how monumental and cataclysmic. That's bull. When the Skins smoked the Cowboys, scorching Cliff Harris and his chump teammates back in 1972 in the NFC Title game, that was the biggest Cliff of all.