I'm Not Sure I'm Ready for Some Football

To be ready for some football, as Hank Williams, Jr. has been known to scream out in inquiry, is to admit defeat, and I'm not at that point yet.

Let me explain.

I'm a grown man, 32 years of age, and yet at this time every year, I get this awful, queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, not unlike the beginnings of a bad case of Montezuma's Revenge.

It starts around early to mid-August, about the time I need to buy more chlorine for my pool.

In May, the pool paraphernalia could easily be found as soon as one walked into Wal-Mart. By mid-August, it's been moved to the back of the store—not far from the remains of the gardening section—and replaced with pencils, pencil crayons, wax crayons, three ring binders, and, most horribly, the toothy smile of Hannah Montana on the back of a lavender backpack.

Back to school.

That's when that queasy feeling hits, despite being more than 10 years removed from any building that is home to higher learning. 

Some embrace this time of year, like my 6-year-old niece who is very excited to be learning math and capital letters. Others, like me, remember the lingering dread that comes with every tick of the clock toward a new school year.

These days, it's the lingering dread of another snowy season just a few scant months away and the inevitable despair of watching the day disappear at five in the afternoon.

This summer was not a particularly good summer for a variety of reasons that aren't important to mention here. However, what made it that much worse was the weather. 

It rained. A lot. Too much, if you ask me.

And then, just like that, it's September.

Did I mention it had been averaging about 86 degrees all this week? 

So summer's over, everyone is back to work, back to school, and back to traffic gridlock. It's back to math, biology, and pushy bosses and then, finally, it's back to the gridiron. 

To tune in to the NFL season this soon—so early in September when the leaves have yet to decide if yellow or red is the it color this fall—is to say goodbye to summer for another year.

It's not easy for me to do that. Not yet, anyway.

I know, though, that once I sit down to watch the defending Super Bowl Champions, the New York Giants, take on the Washington Redskins, I will succumb to the seductress that is "the game," luring me away from summer's twilight until I shipwreck on the rocky shores of the 50-yard line, its siren song screaming out, "Are you ready for some football?"

And as the clock ticks down to zero, and the fourth, and final, quarter comes to an end, yes, I guess I will be.