Free Life Its Ownself by Dan Jenkins Page B

your favorite sport. It's football, ain't it? He gimme a nod. I said, Write it down, hoss. So he did. Only...here's what he wrote."
    T. J. handed me the questionnaire.
    Tonsillitis Johnson had written down the word "booley."
    "Booley?" I looked up at T.J.
    "Something like that."
    "Booleyball," I said, rolling the word around, unequipped to fend off a grin.
    T.J. snatched the questionnaire away from me. He put it back in his desk, locking the drawer hastily.
    "Booley," I said again, repeating the word to myself as I gazed out the window at the stadium, a fine old gray concrete edifice.
    "He can make a difference around here, son," T. J. said firmly. "We get Tonsillitis Johnson wearin' that purple, we'll kick some serious ass."

    Later in the afternoon I caught up with Uncle Kenneth at Luther's Barbecue, a reliable emporium on a decaying side of town. No good barbecue joint ever flourished or even lasted in a swank neighborhood. Why would anybody eat in a place where they might encounter nouvelle brisket?
    A platter of coal-black ribs sat in front of Uncle Kenneth. They reminded me of how much I hated Continental restaurants. I ordered two slabs of mesquite-smoked ribs, sauce on the side, with pintos, fries, cole slaw, and garlic bread. I then wallowed in all of it while Uncle Kenneth told me what was wrong with pro football.
    Everything, he said.
    The sixteen-game regular season was too long. Teams didn't try half the time, not until December. They held back, hoped to coast on through. The result was that every team was sloppy, undependable.
    You shouldn't be allowed to lose seven games and reach the playoffs, much less the Super Bowl. The pros were the best thing that ever happened to college football.
    In college, you had to tee it up every Saturday, and you'd better not lose more than one game if you wanted a shot at No. 1.
    The draft and the parity scheduling were making every NFL team ordinary. Why reward mediocrity? Make the weak sisters work their way back to the top.
    The no-bump rule was a disgrace. Why were they making it harder and harder to play defense? So they could turn humdrum quarterbacks into heroes?
    How come the pros had a way of taking a great ballcarrier out of college and teaching him how to fumble and slip down?
    How come the pros had a way of turning great college pass receivers into split ends who dropped key passes?
    How come most NFL teams had a head coach you never heard of?
    Where did all of the 300-pound subhumans come from and why were they needed to fill gaps and paw each other?
    When was everybody going to wise up to artificial turf? It made players bounce higher than the ball.
    Who the hell watched Monday-Thursday-Sunday-Friday Night Football on TV? Gamblers were even tired of it.
    Where were all the characters in the game, men like Bobby Layne, Sonny Jurgenson, Alex Hawkins, Bill Kilmer, Paul Hornung, Mean Joe Greene, Doak Walker, Jim Brown, Max McGee, Bubba Smith, Jake Scott, and Fred Dryer?
    It had become the NRL, the National Robot League.
    When did breathing on somebody get to be pass interference?
    And did anybody really know what offensive holding was, other than the fact that it was something a zebra called when it was time to fuck you out of your bet but win him his?
    "You left out dopeheads and guys who want to strike," I said.
    "Billy, it's a shame. Your game's become a damned old bore. I'd almost just as soon watch pro basketball."
    He sipped his Budweiser, and said, "No, I don't think I want to go that far."
    "You still bet football," I reminded him.
    "Over and under is all I'd fool with right now. Smart money don't bet teams the first ten or twelve weeks of the season. You don't know who's gonna have the rag on. When they start gettin' down to the playoffs, you can get some idea about form. Aw, I'll bet a zebra now and then."
    Uncle Kenneth kept charts on game officials. Zebras. He was as certain there were notorious crooks among the zebras as I was certain they were only