Ouch…

I wonder if the pink is bad, or does that signify healing?

Is this scabbing too soon?

Will I ever re-grow hair there?  (Not if band-aids have anything to do with it.)

While having these thoughts, I couldn’t help but think of The Boss.  Yes, New Jersey’s own Bruce Springsteen.  There is no reason why I should be thinking about one of the greatest rock n’ roll artists of all time…while I am peeling away the band-aids from my skinned knees.

Is that blood on the inside of my slacks?

Did that band-aid stick to my pants?

Shit, is it peeling from the cut during this meeting?

In 1984 Bruce Springsteen wrote a seminal rock n’ roll anthem entitled “Glory Days”.  He spoke about a young man reminiscing about his earlier prime years, and the folks he knew in high school.  This song became one of Springsteen’s biggest hits, and survives through television shows, farewell tours, and huge sporting events.

...to skinned knees!!...

I wear f****ing compression pants so this doesn’t happen

I can’t even brush my teeth with my thumb this jammed

If this band-aid pulls out any more hair,  I’m suing them*

In September of 2009 I decided it was a good idea to re-join the flag football league that I loved so much.  My pleasant memories of exercise and friendly relationships severely overshadowed the realities of limping around my office the next morning, or wishing I could take a hot bath.  But nevertheless, in some effort to reclaim my “Glory Days” on the gridiron, I signed up for it again.  All was going well with the acute body trauma, until last night’s game just took its toll.  My dominant thumb is rosy and swollen and has limited mobility, and my knees….oh my poor knees.  Beyond the usual structural cracks and aches, I have a far worse affliction.  The cosmetic mess of severely skinned knees.  Until the age of about 12, this is seen as a rite of passage, and easily patched up with some TLC and a band-aid, at worst, a little alcohol.  At 28, using aloe and Neosporin only lent to the comical situation of my work slacks having a ridiculous grease stain at the knee, followed by the band-aid demaning immediate removal and taking all the hair with it.  This, my friends, is bullsh*t.

Reliving the Glory Days sucks.

 

*Even though they are stuck on me, I am NOT stuck on Band-Aid Brand

Damn.

I consider myself a pretty worldly and well read individual, but there is a lot that I do not know; such as the realm of superstardom inhabited by athletes and celebrities of all walks of life.  I could never imagine casually dropping $2,000 for a meal, or strolling into a retail store, shutting it down, and dropping a cool million, especially on a semi–regular basis.   I don’t aspire to exist in this “other” dual reality, mine is just fine for now, but that is not to say I don’t think about it.

...so sweet...

At the advent of the NFL season, one thing I can’t stop thinking about is my favorite team’s former star receiver, Plaxico Burress  - a situation that still bothers me.  There had to be more to this than Plaxico being a reckless idiot.  That rocket to superstardom crashed so abruptly.  It hit its peak during his post Super Bowl 42 interview.  Immediately after the game was over and the confetti was raining down inside the stadium, he was seen grabbing his young son and just soaking in this historic moment.  He had just caught the winning touchdown to slay the mighty New England Patriots and he wanted to share this moment with no one more than his young son.  After the Giants Super Bowl victory, that was my perfect cap to an amazing evening.  In that moment I saw him shedding all the nay-sayers, all those who called him young, stupid and irresponsible.  All those fans in Pittsburgh who turned their back on him.

...even sweeter...

“F**k you all” I thought, “He’s a doting father, a mature receiver, and a New York football Giant, and the haters can step off’

When he showed up late to practice the following season because he had to take his son to school, I was confused, but at least it ran consistent with the image of the new Plaxico, a family man that doggedly stuck to his fatherly duties.

And then gunshots inside the Latin Quarter.  They grazed Plaxico’s leg, and also obliterated my shell of optimism.   Felt personally hurt, how could Plaxico do this to himself?  His wife?  His young son?  His fans?  Never in my years had I been so disappointed by a pro athlete. I didn’t look to him as an idol (since he is about 3 years older than I am), but rather as a success.  A reformed young gun, someone whose ignorance was dissolved by the love of and from his child.  I was both dumbfounded and embarrassed to be proven wrong.

Another black male engaging in tomfoolery, when he was otherwise untouchable.  Check.

Another young black male growing up with a father in prison.  Check.

Another example of an athlete being unfairly used as an example.  Check.

Another year of young fans having to ask why their favorite athlete isn’t playing.  Check.

The NFL has begun in incredible fashion, and other receivers will overshadow Plaxico with both their play (Larry Fitzgerald) and their immaturity (Brandon Marshall).  As he serves his time in prison, he will fade out of the collective conscious of the average NFL fan.  For me, however, his football future is far second to his personal future.  I can only hope that a fellow young black male learns this extremely difficult lesson in time to salvage the rest of what was shaping to be a great career.

exit stage left...

The Defense Rests

...It's been a great season gentlemen...

For the first time in the “storied” (albeit brief) history of this blog I will allow myself to speak freely about my beloved New York Football Giants.  In the height of all my foolish superstition, I shied away from writing anything about sports, for fear of altering my team’s fate.
Seeing as how they altered, and ended their 2008-09 campaign today, that burden is finally lifted.

I can now admit that I am a football fanatic.  I love football, and I also love the mere fact that I love football.  It’s a messy situation.  I annually enter a couple fantasy football leagues, listen to podcasts and read endless blogs about football.  I want to see the big plays on television, and then again on the highlight shows, and a third time on NFL.com.   I want to know exactly how those final two minutes were mis-managed during a meaningless week 4 game, and how this could affect the wildcard scenario.  I want to understand the nuances of the luxury tax, the franchise option and the strength of schedules. I tend to treat the NFL season the way I would imagine a fat person treats a delicious meal.  Acute depression sets in as the season passes and the end slowly, but inevitably, approaches.*

Today the Philadelphia Eagles arrived, in all their green winged glory, and out-played the reigning champs.  It’s all too frustrating to comprehend, but I recognize the great title defense that we mounted for 17 hard fought gridiron battles, and this was our last.  Sadness indeed.

...until next season...

Like the winter winds and heavy snow, this annual depression arrived tonight as I glance at the NFL schedule and see only three games remaining, none containing the New York Giants.  I will root, watch and analyze, just with a detached fanatical interest as I hold on to the last semblance of that sport which I adore so much.  At about 11pm on February 1st, I will accept the end of the season and begin to look forward to the highs, lows and heartbreaks of the 2009-10 season.

*This “fat person” I imagine, is me.