Jason Bourne

You've seen 'em.  Those Jason Bourne movies where Matt Damon gets into and out of every possible situation you can imagine. 

Just about when you think, "That's it.  He can't get out of that!"  He does. 

And just when you venture, "That's gotta be the end..."  It's not.

And it is at the very second you utter, "Oh crap.  He's dead.  No more to the trilogy."  He isn't.

I am married to Jason Bourne.

No, I am not married to the Jason Bourne.  That's on my other blog called:  http://www.wouldntthatbefrickinawesomeifitwastrue.com/.  Nope.  I am married to Jason "Football" Bourne, figuratively speaking.

About the time I think I can relax because football is over for the year.  I can't. 

Just when a wife thinks that maybe things are finally taken care of.  They're not. 

When it tickles my imagination that possibly Mr. Coach might be home at a normal time.  He's not.  Why?

Because football is NEVER "over."  It's like Groundhog's Day meets The Bourne Supremacy meets Friday Night Lights.

First, there is the "Season."  (See how there is a period after "Season?"  That usually denotes an end to something, right?  It is really misleading in this case, however, because it isn't even close to the "end" of anything!)

Then, whether we are at the bottom or the top of the league, there are playoffs.  And even if we are not "in" the playoffs, Mr. Coach needs to go watch these games.  All 16 of them.  Spread throughout the state.  For 3 straight weeks.

Then there is a little gem called the "All League Meeting" at which all of the coaches in the league sit down, round table style and try to out-duel one another with copious amounts verbal diarrhea for about four hours.  They vote on all of the All-League best players (Which is pretty much a no-brainer anyway.  Just look at the stats!) and plead their players' cases for a spot on the ballot.  When I asked, "Why can't this be done by e-mail?",  I get a look of such pity from Mr. Coach that I feel as though I look like a pitiful old dog laying on the sidewalk with 3 legs that has just peed on myself.  I guess I don't "get it."

Next for Mr. Bourne is the Awards Banquet.  Ah, the Awards Banquet.  This Cotillion of Testosterone is where we all gather and give out pieces of wood that somehow represent and validate participation in the sport.  Just in case the grass stains and emotional scars and angina aren't enough to remind us of the season.  And they last just slightly longer than the last ice age, because we talk about EVERY SINGLE KID in more excruciating detail than most eulogies contain.  And then we have cake.

Not done yet!  Jersey and Pad Check-in.  Gotta have those things turned in!  Wouldn't want them to get dirty or smelly....er.

Jason Is Still Alive!  Jersey Washing and Storage is next!  Then we count them!  Have you ever counted jerseys?  Jerseys that still smelled, despite washing?  The dudes at Guantanamo should use that task instead of waterboarding.  My Lord, Osama would voluntarily cuff himself to the White House fence.

About time for the season to die?  NOT YET!  State Championship games!  All FIVE of them.

Ready to call a Code Blue?  Is Jason breathing?  Of course he is.  End of year interview for the paper! 

"How do you think the season went, Coach?" 
"Which season?" 
"Football season." 
"Which one?" 
"Yours." 
"Oohhhh, that football season.  What did I say last year?"

"That you were, quote, looking forward to next season with renewed optimism, end quote."

"Yeah, just print that again."

Jason Football Bourne is trapped under a building that is on fire and underwater all at once!  Certain death!!  Nope.  Time for a football clinic!! 

Then Spring Practices. 

Then Summer Weight Room.

Hark!  A new season approaches.

Roll the credits!  He made it again.  Wow.  Unbelievable.

Sometimes I wish we were a little more "Thelma & Louise" and a little less "Jason Bourne" around here.  We need to drive the season off a cliff as soon as it is over.  Wouldnthtatbefrickinawesomeifitwastrue?