Mike Bookey

While we wait around to see if the NBA actually has a season this fall, something is happening in the world of basketball and it's that this is truly becoming a “world of basketball.” This is cool and we should be proud to see other cultures continuing to embrace what was once a uniquely American sport. This is a good thing and not being a xenophobe, I'm fine with it.
But after taking in a few games of Eurobasket (the surprisingly efficient name for the European basketball championships), I've realized something. Those Europeans are slowly, but convincingly, turning basketball into soccer, or something very much like soccer. I'm also convinced that they're trying to bring this to the NBA or maybe if there is no NBA for a year or more, completely take over the sport. Let me lay out some evidence.

“OK, so here's what we're gonna do, gang. After we kick the ball, all of you… well everyone except for our skinny little kicker, is going to run fast, pretty much as fast as you can, down the field. There will be 11 guys ahead of you and I don't want you to run in any direction but straight ahead and if someone gets in your way, run into him. Oh yeah, and you should still be at a full sprint when you do this. Try to tackle the guy with the ball. He'll be going at full speed, too. And, just a quick FYI… one of you is likely to break something. Probably your collarbone. Maybe a femur. I'm not sure, we'll have to wait and see. All right, go get 'em!”
No high school, college or professional football coach would actually says this to his players because no one likes getting his femur snapped, but this is nevertheless the most direct, efficient and truthful instructions as to how to conduct a football kickoff, far and away the most violent, and potentially most entertaining play you'll see in a football game. While it's no secret that football, despite all its glory, allows players to perform physical acts that would otherwise be considered felonious, the kickoff is where it all comes to a head. And it's also why NFL players, each year beefier and faster than the prior, are no longer too keen on kick returns and why the league pushed the kickoff spot up five yards in the hopes of creating more touchbacks and less smashed brain matter.
There were a lot of sports-talk chatterboxes chattering on about how this rule was going to all but terminate the kickoff return and, in turn, football as we know it. We'd see every kicker punch it through the back of the end zone kick after kick, rendering useless the sinewy speed of NFL kick returners, these guys were saying. They were wrong.

I don't only read sports magazines. I'm an indiscriminate fan of several publications, many of which are left on my coffee table and toilet tank with the intention of letting my houseguests and/or bathroom users know of my varied and erudite interests.
So now you know why I was reading Esquire the other day. As I flipped through a few pages about how to appropriately dress for the upcoming fall season in clothing affordable only to the male versions of Sex and the City characters, I damn near dropped the magazine. Why? Well, because looking back at me with an uncomfortable degree of sexiness was Tom Brady. And this wasn't an article about the NFL's fading stars, but rather an advertisement for Ugg boots.

If you're an American human male between the ages of eight and 108, it's quite probable that you have, at the very least, a passing interest in American-style football. If you're a female in the same age bracket, you're also likely to enjoy the occasional pigskin matchup, too. Football addiction doesn't discriminate along gender lines. If you don't watch football, that's fine. Totally understandable. Worthy of applause, in fact. Someone out there has to cure cancer and read Proust, I suppose.
But for much of our football-consumed population, this weekend's college football kickoff is a time of transition from summer to something much, much lazier. We trade our sunscreen for sweatshirts, mojitos for canned beer, family time for bar time, chase lounges for couches, the glow of campfires for the flicker of your rich uncle's 97-inch high-definition plasma screen. We become first-down obsessed versions of our former selves and if you're in a fantasy league, you're probably just barely able to function in any sort of industrious capacity.