​loves football


Stadiums in Brazil and in the world turned green in honor of the tragedy with the Chapecoense team.

In the end, football is just that. In the end, football is all that. It’s not just a game, not really.

On Bitty and the Football Team:

Its his freshman year and Bitty is walking around campus on his Taddy Tour™ with John Johnson, Ollie, Wicks, and some other guys on the team that Bitty doesn’t know. They are coming to the end of the tour and are walking down the frat row where all the sports teams have their respective houses. They walk past the volleyball house and the soccer house with no problem, but things get louder once they reach the football house. 

There are a bunch of hulking men gathered on the front lawn tossing a ball back and fourth. One, with short black hair and a very broad chest catches the ball, turns to the group and shouts,

“Hey hockey jerkoffs! look out!” 

He throws the ball, and it cuts through the air with Wick’s head as its target. It would have hit him straight on the nose too, if Bitty hadn’t caught it, snatching it from air as easily as anything. 

“You better keep this! you clearly need the practice!” Bitty threw the ball back to him in a perfect spiral, and when the offending player caught it, he was knocked to the ground with the force of it. 

Everyone was gapping at the mountainous man on the ground. A different player with shaggy brown hair called out in disbelief, “You just took out the school’s tight end!”

Bitty shrugged, unbothered, “I hope he’s second string.” 

All of the guys on the Taddy Tour™ starting whooping at the chirp, and the group moved onward toward the Haus, leaving a pack of slack jawed football players in their wake. The shaggy haired one offered a hand to the man on the ground.

“You good Brandon?” He asked, hoisting the other player to his feet. 

“Yeah dude, nothing hurt but my pride.” Brandon rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly, “Who was that guy?” 

Shaggy hair shrugged, “One of the new Hockey recruits I guess.” 

Brandon smirked, “Hot.”  

The first boy you fall in love with is the starting quarterback. His blonde locks grace the top of his head like a halo and other girl’s mouths involuntarily drop when he walks by, and yet he chooses you. After the football games you get into his rusty pickup truck, but he doesn’t drive you home; always his house first. You say nothing when his hands go too far up your skirt and when his team loses he gets angry, really angry, and you might leave his house with a bruise or two but it’s okay because you love him, right? You were only sixteen.
The second boy you fall in love with smokes cigarettes and wears old leather jackets. He listens to classic rock on a stolen record player in his room with black walls. His fingers strum the chords of that angry electric guitar as you watch from a table in the back of the bar. He thinks he knows everything about the world, everything about you, but he really only talks about himself. He’s mysterious and confusing and yet you think maybe he’s the one. You utter I love you in the darkness of his room one night, but he pretends not to hear. You were seventeen.
The third boy you fall in love with reads alone in the library during lunch and twiddles his thumbs when he asks you out after chemistry class. He comes to your house that night with roses and introduces himself to your father with a shaky voice. He brings you to a movie and takes an hour to muster up the courage to hold your hand. His warm fingers intertwine with yours and suddenly it’s bliss. He walks you to your doorstep and after a terribly awkward silence, he leans in and places an innocent peck on your lips. Overtime, he makes you realize you were never really in love, not until him. You’re eighteen, and you finally got it right.
—  hard to know what love is when you’ve never really had it