So here we are again, my friends, informed as we can be
About who’s likely to perform despite a twisted knee,
And who’s provided tickets for his fourth grade teacher’s sons,
And who once drove to Juarez with a backseat full of guns…
Or nuns, or crack, or steroids, other contraband, bad dreams…
There’s nothing that we won’t be told, or that’s the way it seems.
We’ve learned which quarterback eats what, and where they like to go:
If they prefer the sun and sand, or if they like the snow,
And what their wives have said about being married to a star,
And where they played as peewees – not the wives – and more bizarre,
What cars they drive – the wives, the players, and their neighbors, too,
And how they break in cowboy boots when they are stiff and new.
We’ve learned the names of all the pets the backup center’s kids
Have lost throughout the years, and, whether trash cans with tight lids
Now mark the homes of all the linemen, or, if some are slobs,
Which parent made them sloppy by neglecting to give jobs
To them when they were kids, and which psychiatrists they see
To fix the damage done by that. There’s so much now that we
Must learn about the guys who’ll play in this year’s super game…
And each time that the writers must fill up two weeks the same
Great flood of stupid stuff clogs all the papers and the news…
It’s so much more than even the most rabid fan can use.
And why? Because the NFL, convinced it has no peer
In terms of its importance, or, perhaps awash in fear
That folks might not bow low enough before the holy day
If there were just a week between the games the large men play
Has said there must be two weeks for the whole world to prepare.
So, too much time to fill is something that sportswriters share
With all the writing wretches trailing democrats around,
From whistle stop to cold brunch as they tramp from town to town,
And state to state, with nothing new to write or to report…
It seems a shame that we must say the same this week of sport.
— Bill Littlefield