Do you guys ever have dreams where you play in sporting events with no prior experience of the sport? Is my psyche busted or something? Please let me know.
Picture this: It’s that special time of year when everyone is hyped up for football, decked out in blue and gold and pretending they understand the rules of the game. But oh no, one of the players has spontaneously combusted! The coach scans the crowd and points at me. I, a person who suffers from shortness of breath after climbing one flight of stairs, have somehow become a Homecoming football player.
Here I am, squeezed into a football uniform that increases my mass by 60 per cent. You know those shoulder pads? They’re basically the football version of a medieval knight’s armor, except with at least twice the awkwardness. And I’m standing there on the field, trying to figure out how to look like I belong while also looking like an unbalanced bobblehead.
As I "run" onto the field — I put “run” in quotes because it’s more of a determined jog, let’s not get crazy here — the stadium erupts into cheers, and I can’t help but think, "Do these people know what’s about to happen?" Like, are they aware that I’m mentally reviewing my first aid training? Because there’s a 100 per cent chance I’m going to need it. For myself.
The game begins, and to my utter shock, football is not just a bunch of people chasing a ball. There's a strategy! Who knew? While the rest of the team is discussing plays that sound like a bizarre combination of military tactics and Shakespearean quotes, I’m just over here trying to figure out which direction we’re running this time. I’ve never been more committed to not having the ball. If anyone throws it at me, I’ll likely catch it out of sheer panic, like how you instinctively catch a falling phone. Except in this case, the phone belongs to someone who weighs about 300 pounds and is actively trying to crush me.
The coach finally yells something along the lines of “you’re in!” as if this is my big moment to shine. Me, in? Bold move, coach. Bold move. I take my place in the line of scrimmage. I’m pretty sure my role involves some blocking, which, if we’re being honest, is just me standing in someone’s way and hoping they’re not too committed to running me over. I threw up a peace sign, you know, for luck.
The ball is snapped, and suddenly everything turns into slow motion. I see players charging at me, but I’m also having an out-of-body experience where I wonder why people voluntarily do this. I make a half-hearted attempt to "block" (again, quotes needed) by strategically placing myself in front of an opponent and praying they’re feeling merciful. Spoiler: they’re not. A helmet slams into me and I fly back, reenacting that one slow-motion scene from every sports movie where the underdog gets wrecked, and I think all my bones get broken. “Walk it off,” Thunder yells.
The whistle blows, the play ends, and I stagger off the field, where the coach gives me a pat on the back that says, “You tried.” Did I, though? Did I really? At this point, I’m more of an honorary mascot than a player, a position I feel much more qualified for. Then, fireworks get launched into the stadium (?) and I wake up with my face pressed against pages of a textbook.
So yeah. I don’t know what this says about my subconscious, but I did become an expert in avoiding direct physical contact, perfecting the art of sideline spectating and, most importantly, figuring out that I need to start exercising or something. Why did I do that poorly in a dream? Could I not just dream that I won the game? I guess that’s why I’m looking for input — psych majors, psychics, anyone who happens to see this. If you guys don’t tell me, I’m asking Reddit.
Share this article
First online
