Some people watch for the first robin of spring, waiting to see it hopping about in the yard, magical though it's the most natural thing in the world. They take pleasure from the cycling of the seasons, and greet little Robin Red Breast with simple, Thoreau-like joy.
I hate spring, and I hate summer even more. I hate spring mostly because it's the harbinger of summer, as a matter of fact. But I confess I have adopted a seasonal ritual, and today I finally saw it. Hallelujah--the first quarterback of late summer.
Today on CBS I watched the Quarterback Challenge, a little game where quarterbacks from around the league (and a few who have retired--most noticeably Cincinnati Bengal-turned-sportscaster Boomer Esiason, who, it should be noted, outscored his much younger, much quicker counterparts in the accuracy competition) perform target practice against one another. There's a lot of catcalling, good-natured tough-guy chuckling, and most importantly, flexing of muscles (most notably those of Tom Brady, whose no. 12 and glorious buns are showcased at the center of the above picture). Besides the NFL draft in the early summer, it's the first harbinger of football--and the fall.
It's almost here. I can feel it rolling in like a far-off thunderstorm, like a thunderstorm, bringing with it cooling temperatures, soothing rain, darkening skies, and the rumble and flash of insanely large men in tight-fitting pants doing their best to kill one another through dozens of pounds of padding. All things I enjoy immensely.