JUST SAYING
BY RAUL HERNANDEZ
NFL Sundays are when I set up four different games to watch eight teams play at the same time. I use two laptops, a tablet, two TVs, and sometimes, a cell phone to make it happen.
It’s all accessible through the magic of cyber cut-and-paste — hook up a link here and there. Then, send the signal overseas, and bingo, you’re connected.
That’s all I’m going to say about that.
Since the Dodgers lost to the Braves, I don’t care who wins the World Series. But if I had to pick, I’d choose the Astros because KiKe Hernandez is on the team. No relations. Hernandezes are a dime a dozen in Mexico, South America, and some European enclaves. But I like to see my last name up in lights—a breath of fresh air.
Sadly, most of the time, this last name only appears on crime reports and court records. Okay, I guess I am jaded after covering federal and state courts for four different newspapers for 18 years.
A Hernandez is playing in the NFL, Will Hernandez, the New York Giants offensive guard.
But forget all that for now.
Right now, I am high on a cloud — the Dallas Cowboys are 5-1. Still, I cautiously remind my vociferous inner demons that they had a winning record when Dak Prescott broke his foot last year. It was jaw-dropping awful, and it happened during a game.
The team went on a downward slide.
I’m more cautious and more thoughtful.
This season, I don’t crow like a young rooster about to enter a brand-new henhouse when the Cowboys are on a winning streak. Instead, I am humble these days.
I still recall decades ago, when the Cowboys won three games and lost 16. I was not too fond of Sundays. I clicked off the TV, sometimes during half-time.
Little neighborhood kids would point and say, “look at that fool. Hey, how about them, Cowboys! Look, he’s running. Big baby!”
It wasn’t easy going to work with sunglasses and a cap at 4 a.m. And I temporarily stashed my Cowboy apparel inside a box up high on a shelf. I’m still in denial about that.
Most of that didn’t happen, but it felt that way.
It helps that the guys at Golds Gym in downtown Santa Barbara — Antonio, the head of maintenance, along with Jaime and Glen, who work the front desk, are supportive and don’t jump at any opportunity to slam the Boys.
I don’t flap my wings and crow right now and point my unsportsmanlike finger in their faces, shouting: “Cowboys! How ’bout them Cowboys, (insert expletive deleted here)! Yessss.”
If the Cowboys started a downhill slide and a rerun of the 2020 season, they’d pluck my rooster feathers and laugh while doing so.
(Antonio is a Raiders fan; Jaime likes the Broncos and Glen roots for the Giants).
But quite frankly, hardcore NFL fans understand the seasonal taunting and teasing that would draw unsportsmanlike penalties and 15-yard walk-offs in the NFL.
The Gold’s guys and I all agree that the NFL season this year hasn’t disappointed — many overtimes, a lot of player drama, a crescendo of fingerpointing, trades, and counter trades of big names.
And of course, big upsets like the (pssst, Super Bowl-bound — yeah) the Bengals smoking the Ravens — 41 to 17.
The NFL joke this week — Jets were demolished, humiliated, and then, they whined because Brady and company “ran up the score.”
What’s that joke: I went to see a fight, and a hockey game broke out. So Jet fans went to see an NFL game and were treated to a track meet on a football field instead.
The Jets crashed after being shut down by the Buccaneers 54 to 13. Bam!
Watching several games like a zombie, you can’t help but notice and comment on those tents on the sidelines—the tents where injured players are herded inside with somber-looking medical professionals in tow.
I call it the miracle tents — where holy cortisone by the bucketfuls goes into pulsating veins.
Players are smiling walkouts. It’s a miracle! The limps and pain have vanished.
“I am ready to play, coach.”
“Get in there!”
It’s incredible that players with concussions no longer see the world through a blur, and the ringing inside their heads stops after the tenting trip.
Gold’s guy Jaime and I laughed about it. I told him: I bet the concussion protocol is like: “What day is it?”
Player: “Friday.”
Medical Pro: “Nope, Sunday. But that’s close. You’re cleared.
Jaime and I laugh.
Several times, the wind almost blew the tent away. I would love to see what goes on inside the NFL’s makeshift Urgent Care unit.
I told Jaime that I wanted to see a sports cartoon on the Internet: A tent has blown away. A player leans on a table. His football pants are down, and his naked butt is sticking in the air. A white-gowned doctor stands behind him with a rubber glove, ready to check his prostate.
We both laughed.
Or, an entire surgical team is operating on an anesthetized player.
Alright, okay, I’ll admit it.
The NFL is the Roman Coliseum, organized violence that’s become a multi-billion-dollar entertainment industry.
Okay, I’m in. This week the Cowboys play the Vikings.
Gooooo, Cowboys!