I went to the K-State spring football game on Saturday.
I apologize if the opening sentence of this Writing seems a little bland, but it seems to fit the subject pretty well. While American football as a spectator sport is often about big hits, exciting plays, roaring crowds, and fierce competition, spring football falls a bit short in most of those aspects. While the contest contained a couple pretty decent hits dispersed and a few plays that could have been deemed exciting, such cases were certainly not the norm, and were not the goal of the game. Football games are played to determine a winner... Spring football games are played to wrap up spring practices and remind people to buy season tickets.
Even Bill Snyder, the legendary former/returning coach of K-State, admitted that the spring game was boring after it was finished. Entertainment is simply not the purpose. It's a glorified practice where the team involved can continue their work on the same basic plays they have focused on all spring. As I see it, there are seven different reasons to go to a spring football game.
1. You are playing in the game.
2. You are coaching in the game.
3. You are a member of the media writing about/broadcasting the game.
4. You are a family member of a player/coach.
5. You are a loyal fan that wants to get an early look at new players/coaching schemes for the upcoming season. (Or you pretend to be doing that, but end up making an endless amount of absurd comments in the process.)
6. You got confused and thought it was a regular season game. (Therefore, you were pretty confused when you got to your seat and realized there was not another team present.)
7. You need an excuse to enjoy the taste of alcohol. (This one could actually be paired with No. 6, as a drunken stupor could probably lead to such confusion.)
While I have had No. 3 as an excuse for attending a couple times in the past, this year I was firmly in camp No. 5. While this seemed to be a fairly popular reason for attending in 2009, judging from the amount tailgating in the parking lot (accompanied, of course, by a continual chorus of the refrain of the buzzed... You know, "Wooooooo"...(the call echoes in the distance, soon a reply follows...) "Yeaaaaaaaaaah"... (repeat)) choice No. 7 was the clear-cut winner. Unbelievably, I encountered something that falls in the TIDU* chapter of the nonsensical novel that is my life.
*Things I Don't Understand... The Writings: Where pointless acronyms that no one understands are hip.
It's not wise to choose sides in an argument with yourself.
I attended the spring football game by myself. This is either because most of the folks I normally tend to attend such functions with (my cronies, if you will) were unavailable, or because all the folks who I consider to be friends are actually being paid to act as such and their most recent checks bounced.* Nonetheless, upon arriving at the game, I embraced my naturally introverted nature and found a seat in a corner section of the stadium, where few were sitting. I wanted to be able to watch the game on my own and not be distracted by the mind-numbing conversations of those around me.
*This scenario brought to you by the World Paranoia Association... What did you say about us? Nothing? We could have sworn we heard something.
Despite my best efforts to claim a stake of seating territory that would not have anyone sitting within 10 feet of me, I soon had a family of three seated directly behind me.
Directly. Behind. Me.
They were sitting so close that, at one point, the father's knee was in direct contact with my spine. At a regular football game, this would not be an issue. It's normal to be crowded and uncomfortable. This was not a normal game in the fall. This was spring football. In the very section I (along with this man's knee) was sitting, there was an abundance of open seats. Seats with cushions. Seats without. Seats with numbers even and odd. Seats where once could sit without giving the guy sitting in front of you a kneeatsu* massage. Nevertheless, the family stayed camped right behind me.
*Yes, that was lame... I apologize.
Unfortunately, the contact wasn't the worst part of the situation. Their commentary was. You know how, on TV and in film, it's not unusual to see a little devil pop up on ones shoulder offering mean-spirited advice, and then a little angel pop up on the other offering good-natured advice? Mr. Kneebone and his wife were situated in such a manner that their comments sounded like just that. I'd get one voice in my right ear, the other in my left. I believe, in a Saturday Night Live sketch, that Adam Sandler once referred to such a situation as "stupid in stereo." Alas, I won't be judging whether or not anyone is devoid of intelligence. After all, I may or may not have once gotten my fingers caught underneath an office door when attempting to deliver an envelope. I must, however, address one comment that did boggle my mind.
Those unfamiliar with Bill Snyder-coached spring football games should be told that the format is not one that favors parity. The teams are squads are split up to have starters on one side, backups on the other. Keep in mind, starters normally start because they are better players. As a result, one might expect the starters to win the game, often in sound fashion. The important thing to remember is that, in the end, all of the players are actually on the same team. Mr. Kneebone struggled with this concept. On the Purple squad's (read: first team/starters/better players') first offensive drive, running back Keithen Valentine scored on a nine-yard touchdown run. At this point, most fans in attendance were excited. Points had been scored. It was reason for celebration. Amidst all the hoorays* and yippees*, the voice on my right shoulder grunted, "C'mon defense!"
*Disclaimer: Such words are simply used to express the muffled excitement of the crowd. The author heard no actual shouts of "hooray" or "yippee."
Upon hearing this, I sat perplexed. It seemed this man had chosen sides in an intrasquad scrimmage. I struggled to make sense of the situation, but found no solace in reasoning. He was rooting for K-State, against K-State. It was like he was arm-wrestling himself and cheering for "Lefty." Surely this man recognized that the end result of this game had slightly less bearing on the upcoming football season that the date of the punter's next haircut. Surely this man realized that the starting squad scoring against the backups would not be an uncommon event; that it was a foregone conclusion that the offensive starters could find the end zone against defensive reserves. Surely he knew that any progress shown by Valentine - who began last season as the starting running back, but fell out of favor and rarely saw the field by the end of the season - was progress that the Wildcats' running game will depend on this fall.
He didn't. Throughout the game the "C'mon defense," refrain remained, uttered again and again as the Purple squad scored 45 points to the White squad's zero. I began to wonder if this man just loathed the color purple (the color, not the novel), or if he had seen "Rocky" years ago and now rooted for underdogs with the fervor of a gambling addict down to his last dollar, but I never worked up the courage to ask him.
Hopefully he felt better when he read the paper this morning and realized that K-State won.
I apologize if the opening sentence of this Writing seems a little bland, but it seems to fit the subject pretty well. While American football as a spectator sport is often about big hits, exciting plays, roaring crowds, and fierce competition, spring football falls a bit short in most of those aspects. While the contest contained a couple pretty decent hits dispersed and a few plays that could have been deemed exciting, such cases were certainly not the norm, and were not the goal of the game. Football games are played to determine a winner... Spring football games are played to wrap up spring practices and remind people to buy season tickets.
Even Bill Snyder, the legendary former/returning coach of K-State, admitted that the spring game was boring after it was finished. Entertainment is simply not the purpose. It's a glorified practice where the team involved can continue their work on the same basic plays they have focused on all spring. As I see it, there are seven different reasons to go to a spring football game.
1. You are playing in the game.
2. You are coaching in the game.
3. You are a member of the media writing about/broadcasting the game.
4. You are a family member of a player/coach.
5. You are a loyal fan that wants to get an early look at new players/coaching schemes for the upcoming season. (Or you pretend to be doing that, but end up making an endless amount of absurd comments in the process.)
6. You got confused and thought it was a regular season game. (Therefore, you were pretty confused when you got to your seat and realized there was not another team present.)
7. You need an excuse to enjoy the taste of alcohol. (This one could actually be paired with No. 6, as a drunken stupor could probably lead to such confusion.)
While I have had No. 3 as an excuse for attending a couple times in the past, this year I was firmly in camp No. 5. While this seemed to be a fairly popular reason for attending in 2009, judging from the amount tailgating in the parking lot (accompanied, of course, by a continual chorus of the refrain of the buzzed... You know, "Wooooooo"...(the call echoes in the distance, soon a reply follows...) "Yeaaaaaaaaaah"... (repeat)) choice No. 7 was the clear-cut winner. Unbelievably, I encountered something that falls in the TIDU* chapter of the nonsensical novel that is my life.
*Things I Don't Understand... The Writings: Where pointless acronyms that no one understands are hip.
It's not wise to choose sides in an argument with yourself.
I attended the spring football game by myself. This is either because most of the folks I normally tend to attend such functions with (my cronies, if you will) were unavailable, or because all the folks who I consider to be friends are actually being paid to act as such and their most recent checks bounced.* Nonetheless, upon arriving at the game, I embraced my naturally introverted nature and found a seat in a corner section of the stadium, where few were sitting. I wanted to be able to watch the game on my own and not be distracted by the mind-numbing conversations of those around me.
*This scenario brought to you by the World Paranoia Association... What did you say about us? Nothing? We could have sworn we heard something.
Despite my best efforts to claim a stake of seating territory that would not have anyone sitting within 10 feet of me, I soon had a family of three seated directly behind me.
Directly. Behind. Me.
They were sitting so close that, at one point, the father's knee was in direct contact with my spine. At a regular football game, this would not be an issue. It's normal to be crowded and uncomfortable. This was not a normal game in the fall. This was spring football. In the very section I (along with this man's knee) was sitting, there was an abundance of open seats. Seats with cushions. Seats without. Seats with numbers even and odd. Seats where once could sit without giving the guy sitting in front of you a kneeatsu* massage. Nevertheless, the family stayed camped right behind me.
*Yes, that was lame... I apologize.
Unfortunately, the contact wasn't the worst part of the situation. Their commentary was. You know how, on TV and in film, it's not unusual to see a little devil pop up on ones shoulder offering mean-spirited advice, and then a little angel pop up on the other offering good-natured advice? Mr. Kneebone and his wife were situated in such a manner that their comments sounded like just that. I'd get one voice in my right ear, the other in my left. I believe, in a Saturday Night Live sketch, that Adam Sandler once referred to such a situation as "stupid in stereo." Alas, I won't be judging whether or not anyone is devoid of intelligence. After all, I may or may not have once gotten my fingers caught underneath an office door when attempting to deliver an envelope. I must, however, address one comment that did boggle my mind.
Those unfamiliar with Bill Snyder-coached spring football games should be told that the format is not one that favors parity. The teams are squads are split up to have starters on one side, backups on the other. Keep in mind, starters normally start because they are better players. As a result, one might expect the starters to win the game, often in sound fashion. The important thing to remember is that, in the end, all of the players are actually on the same team. Mr. Kneebone struggled with this concept. On the Purple squad's (read: first team/starters/better players') first offensive drive, running back Keithen Valentine scored on a nine-yard touchdown run. At this point, most fans in attendance were excited. Points had been scored. It was reason for celebration. Amidst all the hoorays* and yippees*, the voice on my right shoulder grunted, "C'mon defense!"
*Disclaimer: Such words are simply used to express the muffled excitement of the crowd. The author heard no actual shouts of "hooray" or "yippee."
Upon hearing this, I sat perplexed. It seemed this man had chosen sides in an intrasquad scrimmage. I struggled to make sense of the situation, but found no solace in reasoning. He was rooting for K-State, against K-State. It was like he was arm-wrestling himself and cheering for "Lefty." Surely this man recognized that the end result of this game had slightly less bearing on the upcoming football season that the date of the punter's next haircut. Surely this man realized that the starting squad scoring against the backups would not be an uncommon event; that it was a foregone conclusion that the offensive starters could find the end zone against defensive reserves. Surely he knew that any progress shown by Valentine - who began last season as the starting running back, but fell out of favor and rarely saw the field by the end of the season - was progress that the Wildcats' running game will depend on this fall.
He didn't. Throughout the game the "C'mon defense," refrain remained, uttered again and again as the Purple squad scored 45 points to the White squad's zero. I began to wonder if this man just loathed the color purple (the color, not the novel), or if he had seen "Rocky" years ago and now rooted for underdogs with the fervor of a gambling addict down to his last dollar, but I never worked up the courage to ask him.
Hopefully he felt better when he read the paper this morning and realized that K-State won.
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