On Football

Many systems of logic govern football.

For the armchair devotee, the first order of business is to learn to watch and interpret the unfolding drama between the players on the field.

If this is not accomplished, and if questions are not appreciated, the potential fan tends to drift on in to other activities.

I like football. Not as a devotion, but as a nostalgic ambiance so reminiscent of many hours of my childhood, spent in my father's den, watching the burly boys smash and crash into one another, that upon hearing the rush of the crowd and the play by play now has a soothing, comforting, all-is-well effect on me.

Spending game after game with him, reading and solving puzzles while he stomped and hooted at the screen, yelling advice and criticism, fretting, keeping notes, dutifully congratulating the opposition for exceptional plays, whistling loudly between his fingers applauding our heroes when they advanced, I think football is ingrained in my being.

I cannot imagine watching football quietly. The predictable furor in my household seems the norm. It would have to be.

Since I have lost touch with the players and teams, the owners, the background politics. the standings, and since my recitation of the front line of the LA Rams --once so showy and impressive--has become rusty and obsolete, and since my youthful dreamy time on the weekends has become full of practical intrusions, I am in the category, I suppose, of an indirect fan.

Still available for gambling, however. Nickle bets, my specialty. Of course this raises the question of picking ones favorites.

Ever the moralist, I feel that even this dilemma should not be arbitrary, but thoughtful choices, based on sincere personal criteria.

To be fair--and often lucky--and given my actual lack of a vivid connection to spectator sports in general,I have determined that my best and most valid rule is to bet on intuition and to root for teams from those cities where members of my family have certain links.

Primary ties have the strongest bearing; current or past residence, secondary; positive or negative experience in a city can override these affiliations, naturally.(If Bakersfield, for example, ever had a team, I would be inclined to root for anyone opposing it because of an unfortunate roadside diapering incident in a high wind that took place there years ago.) I call this organic logic.

My teams, therefore, according to bloodlines, in descending order, sashaying, as they will, across amateur and professional lines, are: the Rams,for my parents, the Broncos, the Trojans, the Bruins, for my sister and her husband, San Francisco and Tucson for in-laws and friends, and my own long-standing allegiance for San Diego.

In case of gaps, I improvise .

As long as you put up your money, I have found, and refrain from vacuuming during the game, no one really cares why anyone else votes for a team, so the light heckling I endure for "lack of statistical basis for decision making" amounts to rank and unstable winds, nothing more.

These people are busy nesting in the most comfortable armchairs, dozing amongst piles of newspapers and various, extra children whose play forts are growing slowly into all crucial traffic patterns.

There is a faint odor in the room; it is the aroma of male bonding. The tone of conversation is not the intimate confiding genre where I am at ease, but a gamey, argumentative, hawkish banter with sudden outbursts of horror and glee aimed at the unblinking tube.

All of this makes people hungry. Slipping sporadically into a satellite position --there are erratic currents of happy servility in my makeup--I am pleased to offer, once per season, to make pretzels "for the game".

Any game will do. Just make sure you have on hand kosher salt, which is quite coarsely ground and will therefore stay put when you bake them.

German pretzels, by the way, are from this same dough, but dipped, before baking, in a solution of 2 T . household lye in 2 quarts cold water, heated to steaming . I am willing to forego the splash of authenticity in the shine and flavor, considering lye's extremely caustic properties and the weak disclaimers in the original recipe. So these are Soft Pretzels. Irish ones.

Another note: prepare your baking sheets, when you're ready, by heating them slightly and rubbing them evenly with paraffin. Oil and butter do not work well; I've tried.

Three hours or so before kick-off, combine:

2 T. good yeast

1/4 C. warm water

1 T. sugar

Allow it to bubble up for about 20 minutes. Meanwhile, scald:

1 quart milk

Stir in:

3/4 C. soft shortening or oil

1/2 C. sugar

Pour into a large bowl and cool until lukewarm.

Add the softened yeast and:

6 C. flour

Stir until smooth. Cover this sponge and let it rise in a warm place until light and bubbly, about 30 minutes.

Sift together:

6 C. flour

1 1/2 T. salt

1 1/2 T. baking powder

Stir down the risen dough; gradually beat in flour mixture until dough is blended and the gluten developed. Let it rise, covered, in a greased bowl until doubled, about 1 1/2 hours.

Punch the dough down. Divide it into 6 equal pieces, and let rest 10 minutes. Divide each piece into 10 portions of equal size and begin rolling them into strands 1/2" in diameter and 18 " long. Twist each into a pretzel shape, tucking ends under.

When all the dough is shaped, the first pretzels will be risen.

Heat a shallow kettle of water to boiling. Using a wide, slotted spatula, lower pretzels, one at a time into the water for 1 to 2 seconds; remove and let the excess water drip off. Place right-side-up on waxed baking sheets; sprinkle with coarse salt. I leave some plain. You can also sprinkle with coarse turbinado sugar, but avoid getting it spilled on the sheet.

Bake in a hot oven (400) for 15 minutes or until well browned.

This is a large recipe, 5 dozen, so if you get tired of twisting, you can refrigerate it for a day or two, make it into foccacia, bread sticks, buns, anything you like. The pretzels freeze admirably and benefit from reheating.

Serve these beauties warm, with deep grainy mustards, plain butter, a simple cheese sauce, a bowl of pickles, old soup, anything.