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Huggyballers!
Restaurant
A view of Duck sports from one who flinches.
MEXICAN-AMERICAN CUISINE
• Excellent Customer Service • Tequila & Margaritas
• Freshly Made Foods • Homemade Tortillas
$2 OFF
ANY DINNER ENTREE
with this coupon.
For food only.
Not good with
any other offer.
Expires 10/21.
by Kera Abraham
541-686-9888
685 E. Broadway
S UN -T HURS 11 AM -9 PM
F RI -S AT 11 AM -10 PM
The Little Cafe That Time Forgot
m
25
YEARS
& still cookin'!
Best breakfast in town.
If we don't make it, we don't serve it.
Vegans, Carnivores, Vegetarians we serve them all!
342-2075 • 395 W. 5th, Eugene • Open 7am, 7 days a week
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SUN: 11-5
811 WEST 6TH AVE. EUGENE
(6TH & MONROE) LOCALLY OWNED• 343-SHOE (7463)
28 OCTOBER 7, 2004
I
loathe football. It’s genetic; I have no
depth perception. As a kid, every time
we played a ball game in gym class —
football, basketball, baseball, whatever
— I flinched and ran from the ball. And in
eighth grade, I was rejected at cheerleading
tryouts. So, football fans, don’t take this per-
sonally. It’s not you; it’s me.
That said, football strikes me as a boorish
display of macho aggression. Where’s the
wit? Where’s the civility? Where’s the skill in
a crew of beefed-up numbskulls loping across
a field with a pigskin?
Football is as American as corporate
welfare. No other country has popular-
ized a sport so oversized and bel-
ligerent. Maybe it’s because this
country is composed of lonely
individuals; where we lack
cohesive families, communi-
ties and rituals, football gives
us a sense of belonging. When
our favorite team plays, we
play — while sitting on our
butts, drinking beer. When
they win, we win — and cele-
brate with beer. When they lose,
we lose — and drown our shame
in beer. In short, we bond.
Here in Eugene, united by foot-
ball, we are the Ducks. We wear green
and yellow. We hate the Beavers and their
pansy orange shirts. We sip cans of Budweiser
and yell: Go Ducks! We drink another and
scream it again: Go Ducks!! We pound yet
another, elevate our doughy tushes from the
stadium bench (or the sofa, barstool, what
have you) and bellow: GO DUCKS!!!! We
rump-slap our brethren. We fall off our seats.
Awesome.
I’ll admit: Top-heavy hunks bashing hel-
mets only concern me so far as I can capi-
talize on them. For the past several years,
football games have only meant one thing to
me: working home games at an off-campus
bar, where I put on a short skirt and serve
cheesy bacon fries to loud-mouthed, lecher-
ous, lubberly men.
I’m not saying that all football fans are
men, or that all men are football fans. But
there’s a definite correlation between the game
and testosterone. Football season is kind of
like a male menses, giving men an excuse to
place the emotional over the rational. It’s a
time to divulge vices. Instead of eating choco-
late, men gamble, drink, brawl and ogle.
Football isn’t even a semantically cor-
rect term. In Spanish-speaking coun-
tries, fútbol means soccer; the foot
moves the ball. But in America,
football players hug the ball to
their chests and run with it.
Maybe American football
should be called huggyball.
Then again, a football isn’t
even a ball. Balls are spherical,
while footballs are oblong and
pointy like almonds. In the
interest of accuracy, we should
call the game huggynut.
But the ignorant shouldn’t judge.
Truth be told, every time I try to watch
a game, I get distracted by the irrelevant
details: the cheerleader blowing her nose,
the fan barfing in the bleachers, the linebacker
picking a wedgie. Lacking depth perception, I
know that my view of football is shallow.
And the game has a lot to offer Eugene. It
amps up revenue at the university while
enhancing student diversity. It brings money to
the bars, which I summarily collect. It gives
everybody hangovers, boosting business at
local greasy spoons.
So play on, beefy players. Drink on,
squishy fans. Take a cab home and pop some
aspirin in the morning. Go Ducks.
EW