On a U.S. Football Date

Tonight, I have a date with the U.S. Football Goddess. She represents the true form of that game in the Eternal Realm. We agreed to a kickoff time of 7 o’clock. It’s now 6:55, so the show’s about to begin. 

I appear at her door holding a bouquet of flowers. I ring the bell, and she answers in person. After looking me up and down, she makes an observation that I take as a compliment: “You remind me of William ‘The Refrigerator’ Perry,” she says, “because of your imposing size.” 

“Thank you,” I bow politely, “tho I always think of myself as more like Walter Payton, on account of the fact that I’m a prolific rusher.”

At this point, I attempt to pass the flowers to Goddess Football, but the bouquet is intercepted by her parents, who appear out of nowhere. Her father immediately tries to serve me a red card, signifying that I must be sent away; but I gently press my hand against his and direct him to replace the card in his front pocket, while arguing: “You are not the ref. Only God is the ref.” — Then, in the same way that Pontius Pilate says “What is truth?” to Jesus of Nazareth in St. John’s Gospel (18:38), the father of the Goddess of U.S. Football answers me, saying: “What is God?” But I reply to him firmly: “God is the Demiurge of Plato’s Timaeus.” And this scores me some points.

So I end up having a very enjoyable evening with the U.S. Football Goddess. We really hit it off. I take her to dinner and a movie; then we follow up this success with a few more dates. Eventually, I pop the question: “Will you marry me, Football?” (I say this while holding open a case that contains a beautiful piece of jewelry: it’s a Super Bowl Champion ring from the Chicago Bears.) She accepts my proposal. 

Fast-forward a few years, and we live in the suburbs of Dallas with our eleven children. We do a pig roast for the whole neighborhood, at least once per week.