Jonas Valanciunas had grown to like the sport of American football. He still did not understand the nuances of the game, or, for that matter, any but the most basic aspects of the game at all. That was okay with him. Sports weren’t about deep analysis and careful scrutiny. They were about having fun and getting inebriated with your friends.
Or, in this instance, his cat Arvydas, who was nestled along with his owner in a large pile of blankets and quilts. The normal bluish glow of the TV was offset by the lightness of the day. He preferred nighttime viewings; it was more intimate that way. Nothing to be done about it, though, unless he wanted to DVR the Packers-Cowboys game.
The game was proceeding apace. He had no horse in this particular race, though he had heard good things about Green Bay citizens, namely that they liked to consume alcohol. A noble pastime, he though to himself, as he reached down for his first can of Old Milwaukee.
Unfortunately, he had temporarily forgotten in his thirst that he was currently sporting a giant foam finger on his beer-drinking hand. His crude swipe at fully-laden table in front of him sent booze and cheetos alike plummeting towards the ground. Arvydas sat up at the commotion, then hopped down to the carpet to lick up the spilled beverages.
Jonas paid little heed to the loss. He would clean it up later. On the field, exciting things were happening.
“Wow, what a good catch! He go flying as if to rise for majestic dunk, but instead catch football! What his name? Dez Bryant? I wonder if related to Kobe, I will have to ask next time I see him. Cowboys score for sure this time, that almost be a touch down.”
“What is that red flag for? Do they kick fat coach out of game? Eject him! Three strikes and you’re out!”
“What are they doing underneath that hood? Are they watching exclusive sexy show for refs only? Hahahaha! Sick bastards!”
“What are you doing? Why are you going backwards? What happen to field position? What do you mean it was not catch? He catch the ball, I saw it happen! In my opinion, if he catch ball with hands, he should get yards for play.”
Jonas’ mood had turned sour. He had imagined the NFL to be a purer sort of league than the NBA, a league where the only thing that mattered were the players on the field, a league where all markets were treated equally.
“Do not talk to me about process of catch. The NFL is laughing all way to bank! They want to make sure fat cheese-eaters in Green Bay go to Super Bowl and make lots of money. I am sickened!”
He snatched the remote off the end-table and turned off the television. He continued to stare at the now-blank screen, still processing the events he had just witnessed. Where had the purity of sport, inherent since its inception, gone?