Picture me sitting in a comfortable chair, my eyes half-closed and bereft of animation. There is no expression on my face, only a slight twitching of the muscles that would seem to indicate a form of human hibernation. I am neither asleep nor awake. I am watching football.
It is either my 11th or 12th bowl game. I have turned the TV's audio down to avoid the mindless roar of the crowd and the grammatical disasters of the play-by-play commentators to whom the rules of syntax are a foreign country.
I don't need sound. I know there is a touchdown when arms are thrown into the air and the players romp like fawns through the end zone, slapping heads and bumping butts. I read the score on the screen. I know who's playing and who's ahead. What more do I need?
I cannot tell you exactly why I am watching bowl games. I don't like football that much, not even "the granddaddy of them all," a phrase applied in agonizing repetition to describe Pasadena's annual blossomy confrontation, the Rose Bowl.
I wince when announcers use the term, and I remain wincing during their pathetic abuse of the English language. "Where's he at?" they ask when an injured player, leapt upon by a 300-pound tackle, is carried from the field. "Where'd he go to?"
I think that men are drawn to football by DNA that releases dopamine into our systems during bowl season, heightening our pleasure response to physical confrontation. We can't help ourselves. Come the end of the year and we float like living dead to our TV sets, carrying a bag of potato chips and inexplicably craving beer and hot dogs.
My fixation began with the San Diego County Credit Union Poinsettia Bowl. The commentators are forced to say it all. Not just the Poinsettia Bowl, but the San Diego County Credit Union Poinsettia Bowl. There is also the Georgia Dome Chick-fil-A Bowl. Everything is for sale. Next, the L.A. Pizza Hut Times?
My wife and I were having a pleasant conversation about, well, something when I fell victim to the Bowl Syndrome. Cinelli was probably explaining to me how I could be a better husband if only I remembered she was human too, didn't swear at my computer, cut down on the martinis, were kinder to the dog and helped around the house.
It was lost on me. My synaptic connections were sizzling and my mind was saying, "Somewhere there is a bowl game being played."
