Who cares who is on the 30-yard-line? I’m going for seconds

Just Passing Through

For those of us for whom this weekend includes naps, movies, dusty Christmas ornaments and efforts to eat that last piece of pecan pie before the out-of-town relative boxes it up and takes it home — I know that I will be missing out on some serious fun. I know families who pay extra for their TV viewing so they can switch between “Red Zone” events, thus not missing out on any important scores during this big weekend.

As I understand it, if you subscribe to “Red Zone” coverage, you are notified when the advancing team gets close to the goal line. I’m not sure if the television cuts into the re-run of the Little House on the Prairie series, but somehow, it knows. According to those who subscribe, it is worth it.

I saw a funny commercial in which the family was shoveling down a lovely Thanksgiving dinner, using funnels, vacuums and scoops to quickly get that meal out of the way so the game could begin. I won’t be one of those, but I understand how they feel. If the final show of Project Runway was set for 2 p.m. on Thursday afternoon, I’d be looking for a TV tray.

I did watch most of a football game the other day. That’s what a good person does when someone is visiting for a few days — she sacrifices that PBS British Baking Series for a good round of mystery football. I’m not sure who was playing. They were both red.

As is my usual method, when watching a football game at home, I root for the person carrying the ball, celebrating every touchdown, delighting in turnovers (after a fumble, I think), and trying to see who has the ball. This last game was confusing with all the red on the field. One team, maybe Alabama, was in all red. The other team had on red shirts and white pants. The score line at the bottom of the screen didn’t distinguish between the two reds, and I’m so scatter-brained that I hated to keep asking. I had hoped to root for Alabama but I ended up reverting to the Beggs Method — perpetual confusion and unspecified joy.

Several of the “boys” got hurt. They’d roll around out there on the field grabbing their knees or lying there breathing heavily. I’m sure they weren’t faking. What seriously amazed me was the quick way they got off the ground. Of course, the clock was stopped and didn’t start again until the injured man was off the field. If the team were made up of people my age and with my joints, it would take twoand-a-half days to finish the game. Just getting back on my feet — after I get down to look for my shoes under the bed — takes me several minutes and I’m holding onto the nightstand. They’d have to bring out a forklift to clear the field after every play.

No, I’m not going to rush through my Thanksgiving dinner for a football game. While the rest of the bunch is in there cheering at the appropriate times, I’ll be in kitchen hiding that last piece of pecan pie behind the buttermilk in the refrigerator. Score.