Feet, don't fail me now. I have to run a bootleg to the big chair in the den for yet another college football game. My 30th in several weeks.
But I am moving slowly these days. Never thought I'd say it -- me, who cries Gatorade tears, whose skin is pebbled like pigskin. But I think I have football fatigue, a queasy, flu-like condition caused by way too many bowl games.
Too much college football? No such thing, you say. The college game is our national blast-time. We love it like Dr. Seuss loved funny downspouts or starving starlets love weak-willed tycoons.
Let me just say this: You know your season lasts too long when Al Franken's election result comes in before the Florida-Oklahoma score.
College football has always been the one sport where the season was the ideal length. It didn't linger on way too long, like the NBA, or that nerdy and insufferable "Lost."
No, the college football season ended just right, on Jan. 1, in a glorious love buzz of hangovers, salsa, salty snacks, sardines, intestinal gas, overtime shootouts and, finally, peace. It ended when there were still pine boughs on the mantel and the smell of Santa's cologne in the hallway. Not so long ago, college football ended magnificently, like "Casablanca" or "Rocky."
Now it ends like an episode of "Joanie Loves Chachi." College football, you've jumped the shark.
Me, I blame the networks. Of course, I blame the networks for just about everything these days -- global warming, soggy nachos, tepid martinis. So why not blame them for this fiasco, trying to squeeze every last ounce of confetti out of the season.
Not so long ago, these games were played when the nation had the week off and nothing to do but clean the closet. Now, they're played on a working Thursday, kids juggling homework, Mom rushing dinner.
Tonight, for example, I will race out of the office -- well, I always do that. But tonight is special, the national championship. So I will sissy-sprint to the parking garage, over-grip the wheel while waiting-waiting-waiting for that stoplight on Broadway to change, curse perfectly good people on Hill Street for not getting off the bus faster. Is this any way to run a nation?
Coach Obama, we turn our lonely eyes to you.
And while we're in a political mood, how about a little help for the average fan? The players have unions and agents to represent them. They have shoe companies and marketing firms and mean little men in hard shiny shoes.
