Dear Football Fans

First of all, I'm crazy cool and I do really cool things like make movies and spend the summer in London and stuff. It's a fact, just accept it and move on.

Remember this kid from Jimmy Neutron and how cool he was and everyone loved him or whatever?  This is a great representation of...not me.

I'm more like Sheen, who was a nerd and a goof but everyone secretly liked him better than Nick, who was boring (right? RIGHT?? ...I need to feel better about my goofiness, I guess).

ANYWAY.

One of the cool things I recently did was get paid to go to the BYU/Houston Football game and run up and down the sideline behind a camera man frantically coiling the cord and then uncoiling the cord and then coiling the cord and then uncoiling the cord....

It was...exhausting. And stressful at first. But apart from wondering why technology has not invented totally wireless cameras, I couldn't find anything wrong with this amazing excuse to stand in the Houston's player box for 90% of the game.

Plus, you know, I was getting paid.

EXCEPT. 

We weren't the only camera team. We were stationed on the South end of the field and there was another camera team stationed (on the same sideline) on the North end of the field. And sometimes we would run to the North end to get and shot and they would run to the South end to get a shot and our cords would get tangled and we'd run into each other and someone would end up bleeding out under the bleachers.

It just...It...I don't...

It doesn't make any sense.

If they need a camera over there...and they need a camera over there...you'd think a walkie-talkie would save a whole lot of trouble.

WATCH THE PART ABOUT THE LOGS.

(It starts at 0:40)

...I feel ya, Brian Regan.

In addition to the two camera teams on foot, there was one riding a giant death-tractor. It would go up and down the sideline at 876 miles per hour without warning, leaving hundreds of dead people in their wake.

(Imma take a break for a minute to explain something. Normally on my blog I just tell boring stories and make embarrassing confessions. This post actually has a point, and I'm afraid it's already taken me too long to get to it. This parenthetical is actually a warning that I'm about to start making my point. Only after I have written it to I realize that it's further delaying the important stuff. Oh boy.)

(Also, sorry for being preachy. Sometimes I just feel passionate about stuff and I have to get it out. The same apology goes for my last post.)

Dear Football Fans,

Before I begin chewing you out, I want to make it very, very clear that I know I'm talking to a small portion of football fans. Trust me, I know. Regardless, I'm sharing my thoughts because there are psychos out there. Plus, who among us couldn't do with a reminder to be nice? I could!

Sports fans can be heartlessly mean to each other. They say truly hurtful things, and mean them. They actually get violent, on occasion. They destroy other people's things. People sometimes DIE because they get in fights about sports or...get trampled.

But you know what I learned as a BYU student in the Houston player's box? That it really is just. a. game.

Football, to some, is life. To the players, it actually is their whole life, and you know what? Even they are aware that it's just a game. (Again, I realize this isn't true across the board, I'm just making a point.)

Houston was losing, and they were very obviously passionate about the game and about football, but that didn't stop them from going out of their way (seriously) to be super nice to me, the obvious BYU student that I was.

Maybe we should take this bit of advice from players of the sports (movies, shows, whatever!) we worship. We should be straight-up, no-strings-attached, plain-old freaking nice to each other. Even (and especially) when we disagree.

Love,

Amy (a nobody)

P.S. I'll try to stop preaching now and get back to storytelling. SO, if you're still reading this (why?) keep reading, because it's about to get lighthearted again. KThanks!

So I was standing in the player's box massaging my very, very sore arm (cord wrangling is hard work, ok?), not noticing the death-tractor barreling straight towards me at a speed practically imperceptible by the human eye. BYU had just scored and this camera really needed to join the 8 others in the end zone, apparently.

Fear not, oh ye weary reader! It was not yet my time!

A smallish Houston kicker had just finished swearing and punching the air in an "I'm losing this football game" sort of way. He turned around just in time to see the camera tractor coming to claim my life. He quickly grabbed me by the shoulders and removed me from the dangerous situation, and followed it up with a very sincere smile.

He could have broken his kicking leg or something! But there was absolutely no hesitation. None at all.

I googled "nice guy" and there were only pictures of this person. Apparently he's the world's nicest guy?

This happened twice before I learned to stay out of the death-tractor's way.

There were two players that may or may not have been messing with me. I do not know their names or positions, just like I also don't know almost anything about football.

They were most likely just doing their jobs. But I'd like to think I had a part in this.

I didn't. Whatever, ok? I just want to feel visible and important sometimes.

Anyway, it seemed like anytime I was standing in a certain spot on the sideline, they'd decide that they needed to practice passing the ball to each other. And they had to ask me to move. Every. Time.

Granted, they were very nice about it. "Pardon us, miss, I know you're just doing your job, but we really don't want you to get hurt."

Whatever you say, giant football man.

Football players are large humans.

In the player box they have these nets so the kickers can practice kicking. They put that ball into those nets harder and faster than the death-tractor, which defies the laws of physics.

I happened to be standing right behind one of these nets once. One of the kickers (I'm pretty sure it was the same one that saved my life) suddenly decided that it was a good moment to practice kicking. (Again, are they messing with me or am I just unlucky?)

He was perfectly aware that I was there. He might have even tried to get my attention. I think this because I had the sudden urge to look to my left towards the net at the exact moment his foot made contact with the ball.

And then I saw death. Have you ever witnessed a ball flying at light speed towards your face (the thing that houses your brain)?? I hope for your sake you never have to.

My life flashed before my eyes. I saw my eighth birthday, my first kiss, the time I ate more pancakes than my father.

Naturally, I screamed, backed up, and covered my face.

The kicker laughed. He LAUGHED. And then he smiled and winked at me.

How often does he do this to innocent bystanders, I wonder.

It needs to be stopped, I say!

I looked like this, probably.

Possibly my favorite moment of the evening, however, happened just after another BYU touchdown. I was standing behind a bunch of Houston coaches and advisers, or whoever those old people on the sideline wearing team windbreakers are. One of the old men was particularly upset about the points scored against his team. He was using some very...interesting words.

Anyway. I guess he couldn't bear to look at his players any more, because he turned around and we were suddenly face to face. I was a lottle bit intimidated.

He immediately broke into a smile, however, and said (not in creepy old man way, more like a grandpa way), "Darlin' you have the most beautiful eyes."

Thank you, random angry old man! You have a nice...mustache.

He looked nothing like this, but isn't this picture of Mickey Rooney great?

I was wrangling cords and carrying camera boxes until almost 1 AM. My arm was so sore I could hardly drive my car to get home. When I did, though, I fell asleep in less time it takes the death tractor to travel from one side of the field to the other.

All in all, it was a good experience, but I don't think I ever want to do it again.

This story is crazy boring. I know.

I'm sorry.

I'm just trying to get back into blogging. For my posterity. And my mother.