Fumbling my curiosity

By: LOUISE ESOLA - Staff Writer | Friday, January 6, 2006 11:00 PM PST ∞

I am the type of person who is curious about most things.

For example, if I meet someone from Mali, I am likely to go home and conduct an Internet search of the country, walking away with every tidbit of information: from gross national product to average birth weight of newborn camels.

Friends often comment upon introducing me to others: She's a reporter. She asks a lot of questions.

That's me. I am always picking up stray magazines and pamphlets, books and newspapers. And, during lapses in judgment, I have been known to find myself harmlessly going through people's things. There, I admit it.

My mom, in her Spanish accent, used to call me "Bard-badda" Walters, since I was 8 years old.

That said, there is one topic I must confess that I never cared to learn anything about and this is the month I want to make my proclamation: I am just not into football.

This month's Cotton Bowl, Fiesta Bowl, Toilet Bowl ---- was there a toilet bowl one? ---- and all the other bowls are filed under "couldn't care less."

Forgive me, but there's something incredibly puzzling about a game that never gets going for more than a few seconds at a time, a game that is supposed to last one hour, but goes on for several.

This is coming from a former high school cheerleader who attended the "Big Ten" Penn State University, where major football games on campus shook me the way a light wind ruffles the leaves of an oak tree.

Perhaps I am jaded. Too many pretzels to the head.

In this, I am referring to my stint as the most annoying form of female adolescent. I can chant five cheers for "defense," but I have no idea what it means.

My older-by-11-months brother Eddie the Terrible used to sit in the stands at the high school stadium and hurl giant pieces of soft pretzels at us. At times, he would come close to the fence that served as the cheerleader/spectator Mason-Dixon line and tip me: "psssst ... Louise, you guys are on defense."

Foolishly thinking he had put his sibling rivalry aside, I thanked him.

Then I would whisper to the pouty cheerleader captain, who would summon the troops like a drill instructor on helium. And we would start, "D-E-F-E-N-S-E, defense! Alright! Ready? Go! ..."

In the middle of a spectacle that could shatter glass, the team players on the sidelines and in tights would holler: "We are on offense! What are you? Rejects?!"

Enter the onslaught of pretzel grenades and laughter from the audience.

I am in no way, shape, or form admitting my own stupidity here.

I just didn't care much for the actual game taking place behind my back, as I faced the stands, chanting and clapping ---- "First (clap, clap) and Ten. Do it (clap, clap) AGAIN! " ---- moments after the team had retired to the locker room for halftime and the entire marching band had taken its place on the field.

Fastforward a decade and football is still about 100 yard lines from my interest.

I sat aloof as my husband, another Penn Stater, tuned into our alma mater facing, um, don't recall who, in the Orange Bowl this week. He missed part of the Rose Bowl later in the week, on the account of my necessity to watch Stella get her groove back on the Women's Entertainment channel.

Finally, a friend intervened and told me how important such games were. Frankly, I had no idea that this was the Miss Universe Pageant of college football. So, I let Donkey Kong have dibs on the remote control.

I must say I tried to put my journalistic skills to work, in the fashion of Bard-badda Walters meets Jessica Chicken-of-the-Sea Simpson.

"What are socks? You know, socks. I heard someone say socks."

"Huh? You mean sack? It's when they tackle the quarterback."

Quarterback? I am lost, still. So I go to the simpler questions:

"Is the rose always there in the middle of the field or do they put it there for the Rose Bowl?"

Donkey Kong is glued to the screen, as we watch the crowds go bananas and a player in tights run over the field in a sort of running leap reminiscent of "The Nutcracker." This reminds me.

"Do these guys really take ballet?"

Staff writer Louise Esola covers Oceanside schools. She can be reached at lesola@nctimes.com.

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