Today’s post is one of the shortest ever on Coach Daddy.
Ashley and I cover the Carolina Panthers. She for the Charlotte Post, me for the Associated Press. She reminds me of myself, in a lot of ways. Some not-so-obvious ways. See, when I was her age, I was the young reporter on the NFL beat.
You feel like you’re trying to run with the big dogs in the press box and locker room. Your paper might not have the circulation, but you’re trying to make a splash. It’s why you covered volleyball on your college paper and everything.
Ashley also writes a blog called Post-grad Jitters.
You’ll love the tagline on Ashley’s blog:
Four years and thousands of dollars later, I am a twenty two year old college graduate. I have no clue what I am doing.
Soccer. Football. The beautiful game. Futbol. Calico. Whatever you call it. It doesn’t matter what you call it. It doesn’t matter if you pay attention to it—it doesn’t need you.
It has a culture unique unto itself. From a Copa Del Rey final in a packed Barcelona bar, to a front row seat at a Championship match between Crystal Palace and Hull City, to the mother of all adventures by somehow procuring tickets to Old Trafford for a BPL match—nothing compares to the experience abroad. Maybe it’s psychologically knowing that you’re there.
There are so many variables that this post would turn into a book rather than a post if all received proper attention. Americans have a tendency to be very calculated and controlled. We didn’t invent the game of football, and it allows for too much creativity for American society to really embrace it…yet. Watching a televised match in America is okay, but who wants okay when you can have incredible.
Growing up, I fell in love with the game with the obscure comprehension that it would never love me back. Yet I continue to crawl back to it, like a strung out crack addict. It’s addicting. Once you’ve tasted it, really tasted it (not a poor imitation, but the real thing) you’ll understand what I’m talking about.