If you're a hardcore football junkie, then you know exactly what I mean (especially if you've played). Its the grass. I don't know what it is. I mean, the grass still smells like grass, but at this time of year its different. Its better. Maybe its the heat. Maybe its roasted grass. Kinda like the way garlic is garlic and its good, but roasted garlic... yeah, roasted garlic is where its at. I love the smell of roasted grass because it means... FOOTBALL.
Its here and I can smmmeeelllll it. I love it. The roasted grass crunches in your cleats. Sun beams seep into your neck, relentlessly. The air is thick with humidity and pregnant with violence. And you run your gassers at hottest time of the day because, eff it, your opponents aren't man enough to. Thats right, you're MORE MAN than they are. And you stave off the nausea to run one more, one extra, to get one up. And then you run one more again because a storm is comin and you gotta get one more in. And your feet feel like lead, and rigormortis is setting in in your thighs, but there's a rhythm to the madness. Your soles pound the turf like a war drum. And you can't wait til August to do Oklahomas in that dirt patch over yonder. Yeah, there will be a cloud of dust over there. And the clap of plastic. Your heart pounds with your soles on the turf. There's a storm comin and you gotta get this one in. The air is thick and its hard to breath. Its pregnant with violence. Oklahomas. I'm gonna hit him so freakin hard that lighting will flash. BOOM. The freakin thunder will roll. Hell yeah, I bring the thunder baby. Nobody goes through what I go through. Rain? Eff the rain. One more cause its raining. The storm is here. I'm the freakin storm. Ahhh... you smell that?
Its here... FOOTBALL.