Published: November 28, 2008 11:23 pm      

The Lombardi Code

The Priory of Sports Fans is an extremely secret, yet non-exclusive society made up of, well, chosen male sports fans. Women think that we sports fans are stupid. That’s just a guise that enables us to earn some slack during the important football season. That’s true for all male sports fans.

But what most of them don’t know is that there is a secret group of fans who, for a generation, carry the answers to history’s most pressing questions. Did Oswald act alone? What is Stonehenge? Did Ruth call his shot? What happened to Chuck Cunningham in “Happy Days?” Why did they make “Caddyshack II?” And what is the real purpose for those otherwise worthless Top 25 polls?

This is information known to those in the know as “The Lombardi Code.” All of the answers to all of the questions are bequeathed to us so that as men, posed as mere imbeciles, we can carry this important information along without any threat of being prodded for it. Would you ask Forrest Gump about the creation of the pyramids? No, and that’s why Sir Gump is still a valuable member of the organization. It’s the perfect cover to hide the most intelligent questions with people that seem the most stupid.

We also know the true meaning of Thanksgiving. It’s this one that I’ll share. It’s safe as the information has been declassified, and the only women in the world reading this right now are my mother and grandmother. I know how to take care of both of them.

Thanksgiving has little to do with a feast held by early settlers. Take that nice little image of Pilgrims and Indians and throw it away. All of that may have happened, but it’s not what we celebrate. It’s nice to know that for at least one day we could be friends with the same people we would later slaughter and throw off their land in the name of Manifest Destiny, but we gather once a year for more important reasons.

By now, most of us are reduced to Thanksgiving leftovers for their football this weekend. I know I’ll have a baggy full of turkey pickings to dump salt on tomorrow when I migrate from my bed, to the refrigerator, to the couch to watch Sunday’s slate of games. I know I’m done when I awake from a nap and still have a piece of turkey in my mouth, and another in my hand.

It’s the Al Bundy in all of us to gorge ourselves on Thanksgiving until we need to unbutton the jeans to relive pressure, all while watching the carnage of football.

This is why we celebrate Thanksgiving.

It satisfies two urges at one time: The need to eat, and the need to watch violence. The only way we could have it any more primal is if we actually slayed the beasts ourselves, and ate the meat raw off the bone. Contrary to what women may think, we men are actually civilized and are capable of controlling those urges. Actually, it’s because we’re lazy and just want someone else to cook it for us, and serve to us. (Who’s stupid now?)

We usually get to sit on the couch the entire day until we get called to the table by the women, at which point we complain about the timing of the meal.

“Are you crazy, woman? There’s still 2:30 left until halftime and you’re serving food? Take it all back into the kitchen for the next few minutes. And close the door so that I’m not driven crazy by the smell.”

That may just be the first course of the day. Organized meals to go with organized violence.

That’s all football is. Short, intense bursts of aggression followed up by about 45 seconds of whistle-induced truces. Of all the guys I know, I really can’t give you more than one who is personally organized. It’s funny that one of the things we most want structure in is our aggression. Look at the love American men give to movies like “The Godfather” trilogy and “Goodfellas,” and television shows like “The Sopranos.” They are all classics regarding what subject? Organized crime.

Even the criminal element is more entertaining when it has organization.

Of course the meal is organized. First, it more than covers all of the important food groups: White meat, dark meat, red meat, potatoes, bread and gravy. Some people like to eat vegetables, but for me they just take up prime real estate that more meat or gravy could have occupied.

Second, it might very well include three different courses for even more organization. On first down there’s the salad, on second there’s the actual meal and on third we get the dessert. On fourth down we punt ourselves into the coffin corner of the couch to recuperate. At my grandmother’s every year there is guaranteed to be at least one man sleeping on the couch while the rest of the party is going on around him. I’ve been guilty of that a few years. And yes, The Priory knows what makes everybody sleepy after a big Thanksgiving meal, but we’re not telling. The origins of “The Itis” have a few more years under top-secret classification before they can be released.

The one secret we don’t have the answer to is why, for the love of Pete, we have to watch a Lions game every single year? I’m not any happier to have to watch a Cowboys game, but we have to watch them every Sunday anyway and at the very least they are usually decent. It hasn’t been fun to watch the Lions since Barry Sanders retired, but it’s some sort of tradition to somebody so everybody has to suffer.

I can only imagine what a Turkey Day game was like. Being able to watch two teams, that could probably give the Lions a run for their money, go at it live, and then make your way back home for the meal. Instead of stadium pizza, you took a drumstick, some stuffing and some mashed potatoes and gravy for a pre-dinner, mid-game snack. Maybe we should go back to Turkey Day, if for nothing else but that.

The final phase of this celebration of things most manly is the pie. Apple, pumpkin, pecan, you name it. And if there’s one I’m not particularly fond of, there’s always Cool Whip there for the save.

Nothing quite tops the end to a day full of enjoying violence and eating like men more than something that takes us back to when we were boys.

Chris Appel is a sportswriter for the Cumberland Times-News. Contact Chris Appel at cappel@times-news.com.