Igenerally try not to get involved with sports, having realized a long time ago that they and I don’t get along well, and we usually wind up hurting each other. Recently, however, I was involuntarily thrust into the slobbering realm of sports, and it seems to have taken custody of my life.
The first case of thrustage came about when a girl we’ll call “Bob” informed me of a new rule regarding one of the oldest traditions at Elsinore High School (aside from the Freshman Sacrifice each Thursday at lunch). The tradition in question is the one where, on the days of the football games, the players’ girlfriends wear their extra jerseys. This is mainly so the couple can proclaim to all the world that they are, in fact, still together and that neither of them has been caught behind the bleachers with anyone else yet.
Anyway, the Powers That Be decided that the girls should not be allowed to wear jerseys. The reason for this, we assumed, was that the swim team was angry because their girlfriends aren’t allowed to wear their swimsuits on the days of the big meets. We were told no, that wasn’t it. We then suspected that just maybe the school says it wants to increase school spirit, but inwardly, they don’t give a flying goat head how much people like the school. No, they told us angrily, that wasn’t it either.
Finally, according to “Bob,” (whose real name is Krista, but we don’t want to embarrass her), a few of the girlfriends got mad and started a petition, which garnered approximately 12.9 million signatures. That was apparently enough, because James Gwyn (one of 836 vice principals) called them into a Special Meeting. Present at this Special Meeting were the aforementioned “Bob,” along with “Hector,” Mike,” and “Marv” (whose real names are Heather, Angella and Jennifer, but again, we don’t want to embarass them). The four were representing their football player boyfriends, named (and these are their real names), Garret, Mitch, Raoul and Ray. (I mention their names so that the eight of them can see themselves in the paper, find me at school one day and graciously kick me in the head.)
Anyway, in the course of this Special Meeting, Mr. Gwyn announced that the real reasons for the rule were:
1. Girls have been known to lose their boyfriends’ jerseys.
2. Boys have been known to promise their jerseys to two girls, and the two girls have been know to attack each other with X-Acto knives.
3. The jerseys are made of very sheer, net-like material that looks like a large swarm of geometric moths attacked it. The girls, though, have been known to wear them with only (as they say at Harvard) a brassiere on underneath.
(I would say, though, that if they want to boost interest in high school football, having a couple dozen girls with see-through tops standing on the sidelines is the way to do it. But that’s just one chauvinist’s opinion.)The rule was eventually repealed, but only for the Varsity team girlfriends — Junior Varsity and Freshman team girlfriends still cannot wear the jerseys because, as Mr. Gwyn put it, “they haven’t yet earned the right.” This will undoubtedly create a stir among the underclasswomen, but, hey, who cares?
Personally, I think football should be banned because I feel that it is going to be the downfall of my social life, if not all of Western Civilization. At the risk of receiving a truckload of drool-stained, crayon-written letters from football fans, I’ll continue.
Nearly every girl I’ve asked out has informed me that they can’t go out with me because they don’t want to upset their large, burly, football-playing boyfriends. One girl actually asked her boyfriend, and he grunted, “No,” which made me wonder: Where and when did this guy purchase this girl, and how much did she cost? Did he order her through the mail? Was she a gift? Does he have to make payments? If he can’t pay one month, does she get repossessed?
My point — you knew I’d find it eventually — is this: if it weren’t for football, these guys wouldn’t be large OR burly, and I (having the charm of 10 men) would easily be able to capture their girlfriends’ hearts and take them to any of the dozens of exciting places in Lake Elsinore (“Want to go see a pile of rotting fish this Friday?”).
Next week: A bizarre tale involving me, four other guys, a volleyball and a flourescent pink hat. Intrigued? Well, read it anyway.
The football player whom I refer to as "Raoul" was actually named Russell. His girlfriend, Angella, was one of the ones I had asked out, only to be told she wasn't allowed to see other guys, and my calling him Raoul was a bit of an inside joke between me and her. He and most of the other football players found this and subsequent football columns amusing, for the most part, which was good.
