The truth is that until a few minutes ago I had nothing clear about what I was going to write in this column. Of the Packers, of the carnage that this league is for the quaterback rookies or of how in this sport a person who looks anything but professional in the NFL can tip the balance in a match and even championship. Many songs, all with their substance.
So, I stopped to think that I would get up from his seat and make that select group that make up my friends, my best, howl “here is liiiiio” friends. I did not doubt it, a kick from many yards by a kind of driving school teacher, office worker or baker with the aim of inserting the ovoid between three sticks and, with it, adding three points. Size ‘zambombazo’ and the subsequent catharsis that occurs later, that would be what would ‘engorge’ them the most. I had to talk about the field goal of victory.
It happens that on the roster of an NFL team there is room for everyone. A bit like the Coca-Cola ad from more than a decade ago: “For the fat, for the skinny, for the tall, for the short …” . So much so that it is ‘common’ for a man with little athletic bearing to decide a match. This last date has decided three (it is said soon).
The mythical Justin Tucker was the first of the afternoon. The Ravens’ kicker made history by scoring the furthest field goal in league history. 66 yards to give the victory to theirs against the Lions that put them on the ropes (19-17). We all knew that this man, who was about to dedicate himself to something as foreign to the NFL as music, would break this record, the question was when. Tucker was followed by Daniel Carlson of the Raiders. This kicker, who wouldn’t surprise you if you saw him in a movie role playing a German spy, cocked his foot to launch a 22-yard cannon and put a beautiful 3-0 on the balance sheet for the Raiders (28-31). Last but not least, it was Mason Crosby’s turn. The Packers player could be that nice neighbor, that accountant jaded with his work and many things more, but he chose 14 years ago to be kicker and the Green Bay people decided that he would be their ‘decisive man’ for what goes beyond a decade. Against San Francisco, he put the last stone of the cheese triumph with a kick of 51 yards (28-30).
That a person far away at a sidereal distance from any mold of an American football player may be decisive when it comes to the truth, it never ceases to amaze and please me in equal measure. It is one more example that we are all important and, in our way, decisive. A ‘moral kick’ to escape the vulgarity to which it subjects us the routine, a way of shouting “here’s liiiio, and I’ll make it up.”
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