LA Rams QB Matthew Stafford: Pro Bowl slowlights :)

The LA Rams got a new quarterback. A veteran. Goes by the name of Stafford, Matthew Stafford. New sheriff’s in town. Harrumph. Some folks say he can lead the Rams to the Super Bowl. Others say he can’t even win a playoff game. But no matter what ‘they’ say, they are all saying it to you in that same ol’ boring prose.  Not this time. Not today. Today, we’ll say something different in a different kinda’ way.

From: The wondrous, amazing (and sometimes consternating) internet
To: All LA Rams Fans with fingers-crossed
re: Matthew Stafford balling out this year

This.
Give us this.
Give us this day. . . our daily dose of football ballet.

Just this.
Give it to us slow.

Work it.
Work it slow.

Allow us to savor it.
Take pleasure.
Suck the marrow right outta’ the insides of that bone.
Then, lick our fingers.
Smack our lips.

Let us watch it s-l-o-w-l-y.

Stafford Pro Bowl Slowlights

Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s the Pro Bowl. We get it.

A football game played at three-quarter speed, anyway, by all concerned. A game where nobody on either side of the ball wants to get hurt. An exhibition. A glorified scrimmage. Doesn’t count for squat. A game where defense is a foreign concept.

Where maybe the QB isn’t wearing a red jersey, but we all know the drill. If you hit him, just don’t hit him too hard. After all, it’s the Pro Bowl and we’re all just here for the payday and the contract incentive money we’re about to earn. Can’t even say we’re just here to enjoy Hawaii with our families on an all-expenses-paid vacation anymore, neither.

And yet, the skills are there for us, on display, to admire. To savor. To dream about what might be. What could be?

With eager anticipation.

‘Cuz some of us are . . . so excited. And we just can’t hide it. We’re about to lose control and we think we like it.

Because watching football in slow-mo is like dilation of time. Lets us rhapsodize about how beautiful it can be.

Just something inherently likable about it. Like NFL Football Films and hearing the golden dulcet tones of John Facenda in that deep, baritone, football voice of his talking about “the frozen tundra of Lambeau” or “The Autumn wind is a pirate. . .
blustering in from the sea.” . . with a rollicking song he sweeps along. . . swaggering boisterously.”