I’ve given some thought to September. It starts with invitations for one last blast of summer at the lake and ends with all these warty gourds, propelling us toward some version of October we never asked for. Were these things always foisted upon us, the warty gourds, reminding us of our imperfections and leaving us to ponder our own sagging flesh as they rot to mush on our front porches and kitchen tables?
September pulls the bait-and-switch. It sells us on a vision of backyard firepits, laughing with friends as we sip mugs of cider with cinnamon stick garnishes. It gives us the reality of tired stares over a gristly Bourbon Street steak, hoping that somehow the Oreo shake will elevate this evening to something we’ll remember past next Tuesday. The optimism fueled by summer recruiting successes and the sunny scenarios discussed on preseason podcasts is replaced with the realization that the product on the field and the sausage selection at the concession stand has not been curated to our specific tastes.
September asks us questions that August never has to, like whether that opposing ballcarrier is sprinting to the end zone mostly because of the defense’s mental errors, physical failings or flawed strategy. (Those aren’t mutually exclusive options, whispers September, who can be a real jerk.) September forces us to reckon with the reality that this program is two years away from its best self and there is delayed gratification built in to the formula of football recruiting success = football game success. September suggests there is a fine line between a chain restaurant advertisement and an unprovoked assault.
