When I played, I liked going on the road. Maybe it was the way I was made, my nature, or maybe it was the way I was raised – some strange nurturing of my harsh environment. But being on the road focused me in ways I could never replicate at home no matter how hard I tried.
It made me feel like my back was against the wall. It sharpened my edges and put a chip the size of Paul Calvisi on my shoulder. It gave me great joy to think of my opponent sitting at home, comfortable, by a fire, sipping tea with his pinky in the air, unaware of the horror he would face in mere hours. Or so I liked to think.
When on the road, I knew I was the underdog. I was the wretched barbarian camping on the outskirts of Rome, preparing to breach the enemy’s wall. I liked the hardship and I loved the challenge. I would never ask any quarter from my enemy and, on the field, he would never get any from me. The road made me feel this way.
Going on the road is the ultimate gut-check in the National Football League.
For three-and-a-half hours, every Sunday, your opponent is your sworn enemy, a man worthy of being driven into the ground…with malice.
What is good, Conan? Forget the lamentations of the woman, driving your enemy into the ground – with malice – in front of his people, including his wife and family, was good.
I never felt like this when playing at home. In fact, I felt like I was the one being stalked and my enemy was braving the hostilities of playing in front of the masses, the masses that wanted their heads on a platter, the masses that cheered our every success – no matter how minute – and jeered the enemy’s very presence. Any good I did was nothing but static in the roar of the many, their expectations and approval gave me no satisfaction or confirmation of being the “better man.”
That sucked buttermilk.
The Cardinals are in the middle of the “Mother-of-all-Road-Trips.” The team has been on the east-coast for almost a week and their unfamiliar surroundings, mixed with the steady grind of routine, have turned their smiles into frowns. Their campfires are burning and they have grown restless in achieving what they came here to do: win a game.
Football loves the wretched. Like a new-born baby suckling on its mother, hardship sharpens the player’s sword and prepares them to give what others are unwilling to. Being uncomfortable should be every player’s security blanket during the season. If you are comfortable during the season, you’re doing something wrong.
Big Red appears to be preparing itself to stand at the ready. Although they know why they’re here and accept their coach’s reasoning, being away from home, not seeing loved ones, eating hotel food, commuting to practices and sleeping in someone else’s bed (while preparing to do battle) has them poking their fires. Their game-face is starting to crease their brow. The boys are growing restless.
This is good, Conan.
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