It seems that in some point in the too distant past, a short time after Alberto had bought season tickets from a co-worker’s mom, I agreed to go to one of the games. I picked the game where the Redskins were playing the Saints since I figured that even if I hated watching football (which I do) I could muster up some measurable level of excitement for that one, if none other.
So. The day has come. It is 10am. I am hungover. I do not feel like sitting in a large open air venue surrounded by tasty snacks and cool refreshments, watching a bunch of sweaty guys run around a field in tight pants throwing themselves against each other in testosterone fueled displays of male superiority.
Wait. I think I’m ready to rumble.