Football Season Is Over

It's a Saturday. There is no football. Sigh.

I don't like this Saturday. I never like this Saturday. The calendar never cares that there are about eight months more than I need or want.

To the best offseason piece ever written (it's tradition, man):

... you will face the winter again, holding the note and understanding the urge to write those words on a sheet of paper: "Football season is over."

The experience, though, is now more than enough. The wind may cut through me now. It's an indicator that I'm alive, completely and fully alive in the indefinite span between arrivals and departures. This all matters so much more now, all of it, football and every other absurd fixation, the time, the space, the diversion, and most of all who you share it with, because it is finite, borrowed, and ultimately reclaimed. Its scarcity is its value; its pleasure is in its ultimate end. Its consolation is its rebirth and continuation.

In the depth of winter I finally learned there was in me an eternal September.

I think I can make it.