You’d sit on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, yelling at the players like they could hear your screams
And I’d sit beside you, waiting in vain, for the warmth in your touch, for you to say my name
But the whistle would blow, and your voice would rise, louder than love, sharper than lies
Still, when the TV turned dark, you’d turn around, pull me close, and call me your star
I dressed the way you wanted, tight skirts and lace, hoping I’d see admiration on your face
You told me I looked like a dream come alive, but only when I matched the ones on your phone at night
Scrolling through bodies I could never be, whispering names that were never me
And I stood there, silent, as you held me close, wondering if I was just another ghost
Was I just a shadow playing your game? A pawn on the board with no real name?
Or was I something more before you walked away? Just a memory you left to fade?
90 minutes, that’s all I was, a moment of fire that turned into dust
A game you played then left behind, another match, another night
And I still hear the echoes, still feel the pain, like a stadium screaming your name
90 minutes, that’s all we were, and when the clock ran out, you chose to disappear
) You used to pull me in, say I was your queen, but only when the world wasn’t in between
When the match was over, when the night was still, I was the trophy you held with a fleeting thrill
But when morning came and the world resumed, I faded like shadows in a crowded room
And I should have known, I should have seen, love isn’t love when it’s kept behind screens
Was I just a play, just another game? A temporary high that you’d soon replace?
Like a penalty shot, like a final score, did you ever love me, or was I just decor?
And when you screamed at the ref, when you cursed at the field, was that the only way you knew how to feel?
Was I just another season you left behind? A name on a jersey you’d never rewind?
90 minutes, that’s all I was, a moment of fire that turned into dust
A game you played then left behind, another match, another night
And I still hear the echoes, still feel the pain, like a stadium screaming your name
90 minutes, that’s all we were, and when the clock ran out, you chose to disappear
Now I walk past the fields, past the neon lights, and I see you there, lost in another fight
Another game, another crowd, another girl waiting to figure you out
And I want to warn her, I want to say, love isn’t love when it fades away
But she’ll learn like I did, when the final score’s in sight, love never lasts past 90 minutes of time

if you know how to listen…see below


https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1971/11/27/game-plan

Show a little finesse, place a bet.
You’re just in time for the game, get some skin, the fix is in.

What’s more American than cashing in?
The real winners do, and now that could be you.

With suckers out there waiting, scamming is as easy as creating
an NFT, bitcoin, an online bet or a romance baiting.

You’ll be a witness, as the wise guys step in, for the NFL it’s a win-win
You get the excitement you need and the real playas get the proceeds.

Come on, Mr slick ricky, you know you’ve got to be bold to win gold
winners double-down, they never fold—the thrill never gets old.

The winners will add your measly bucks to their ***.
Let's admit, all you’ve got, isn’t a lot - it wouldn’t, say, fuel a yacht.

So, step up, place your bets, you’re in the digital front row all the time,
don’t be lame, be part of the game, it’s greasy, ******, organized crime.
.
.
A song for this:
Vicious Games by Yello
The Game of Love (feat. Michelle Branch) [Main/Radio Mix] by Santana

A football game was the call
And I stood tall
A purse full of wishes
Landed in the ditches
Should have trusted my intuitions
On a Trailways bus
Mile after mile
Losing my inhibitions

It’s Sunday afternoon and several of us, Leong, Sunny, Anna, Lisa and her new BF Dave (well, he isn’t ‘new,’ he’s 26) and I are watching an NFL football game. The Eagles vs the Jets.

There’s a platter of wings, fries, celery and dips on the low-white table for grazing and everyone’s multitasking while watching the game. Leong, Lisa and I on iPads, Anna, and Dave are on laptops and Sunny has a book.

I’m rooting for the Jets, although they’re the underdogs and given little chance. Dave’s for the Eagles, he believes they’re SuperBowl bound and he may be right.

After every good Jets play, like a first down, or defensive tackle or a score, I start snapping my finger - like the dancing Jet hoodlums in ‘West Side Story’ and sing:

“When you're a Jet,
you’re a Jet all your life
all your kids will be Jets
and even your wife.”

When I did it the first time, Dave chuckled. Lisa patted his arm, saying, “You’ll get used to it.” I’ve only done it twenty or thirty times since then and everyone’s ignoring me.

“I could be a songwriter, you know,” I said, “just give up this life of college drudgery and hang with T-Swift”. No one denied my obvious talent.

A huge Eagles lineman bust through the Jets o-line, throwing QB Zach Wilson to the turf, “Jeez,” Anna said.
“That guy’s not an Eagle,” I protested indignantly, “he’s a condor.” I was hoping for a flag but none were thrown.

“I want some steak”, I announced suddenly, to no one and everybody, switching subjects as quickly as a brain synapse fires.
“Do you know,” I reasoned extemporaneously, “that a diet of nothing but healthy prime-rib or ribeye steak can practically eliminate the chance of coming down with mad-lettuce-disease?”

“Mad-lettuce-disease?” Sunny asked, looking up from her book with a smirk.
“Middle America,” I began, Leong groaned and Lisa rolled her eyes at Dave, who smiled.
“That’s where all our vegetables come from,” I said, “the red states on the electoral maps,” I clarified even further.

“Well, how can we explain simple, decent, hard-working people falling in love with a lying, craven, reality-TV huckster like Trump?” I asked rhetorically,  looking around for an answer. When no answer was forthcoming, I supplied it:
“Mad-lettuce-disease!” I proclaimed, “Those people are eating the ‘vegetables’ they grow!” Giving the word ‘vegetables’ the same scorn I might lavish on ‘cigarettes’.

“If we all just stuck to a healthy, all-steak diet, ‘Mad-lettuce-disease’ would fade away and America would be saved.” I concluded, like a lawyer finishing a summation to a jury.
I expected applause, or at least a few “Amens” but there were only a few grunts and maybe a chuckle.

On the screen, the Jets defense broke through the Eagles o-line and quarterback Jalen Hurts, under pressure, threw an interception. I jumped to my feet yelling,“YES!” and begin snapping again:

“When you're a Jet
you’re a Jet all the way
from your first sorry breath
to your last dying day”

I love football, and the Jets won!

It was a long bus ride
And the **** plastic sheet seats
Were cracking from abuse and freeze
We all kept warm with conversations
And secrets
And scandals in the back row

The era of shame
My own propaganda
Selling me on the idea
That I should carry everyone's.
Sourness
Sins
Shame

That bus was wretched
With the stench
Of frozen sweat
And regret

Despite it all
I could find any single one of you
And we'd exchange
Untouchable moments
Memories of the heart
Strung along that tattered pavement

Here's mine

It was in your eyes
That I saw myself shine
For across that opaque pane
I witnessed your thought
"this guy is interesting"

You and your curly raven rings
Asking about my fixations
Changed the course
Of who I see
when I close my eyes

I've never seen you since that summer
I've never sat behind you again
Can't even recall the name
Can't remember if we won the game
But you're a warm tea I get to sip
When it comes across my mind
No loose ends
No ***** stains
Just the sun breaking the squall
And the summer of ****** football

Are you a football fan?

Are you into BIG TIME college football, where my
home town, Georgia Bulldogs are defending, two-time
national champions? Their season began last week
or maybe you’re an NFL fan (they start playing this week).

Ivy league college football starts next week and if you're
not excited about it, maybe you don’t understand it.

Before games there are parties with pizza and chicken wings.
Do NOT go to a frat house on a game day - just don’t.

If you’re going to throw a college football game
you’ll need two teams of players in safety uniforms
and at least one football (that’s what they fight over).

You need a crowd - two crowds really - and a stadium
where everyone could, in theory, sit. There should be
flags, banners, hats and jerseys in riotous team colors.

You’ll need two marching bands and school mascots.
A bulldog will do (Yale), or if you can’t afford that, you could
dress someone up as a huge-headed pilgrim (Harvard).

Of course, as with any big sporting event you’ll need skimpily
dressed girls to toss in the air and assorted food and drink to sell.
There will be lots and lots of cars, and police and ambulances
standing by in case it’s all too much or someone gets hurt.

Cheerleaders are there to whip the crowd into a vocal frenzy,
soon everyone’s yelling things like “DE-fense,” “push em back,”
“Harvard *****” and “No, really, Harvard *****.”

The ideal game should include a bitter rivalry like Yale vs Harvard.
While everyone knows Yale is better academically, there’s a small
chance that Harvard could win the game - which makes it scary.
We won last year and we’ll play them again this year, in November.

Anyway, whatever flavor of football you like:
It’s football season people!