Blog 93 - Touchdown?

Blog 93 - Touchdown?

November 2025

This American Football season, let me tell you, has been an absolute revelation. I’ve been gripped, utterly and completely, watching with an avid interest that frankly surprises even me. Sunday afternoons, Monday nights, even a few Thursday skirmishes – you'll find me glued to the screen. I am genuinely awed at the skill and physical ability of these gladiators in padded armour.
The sheer power, the lightning-fast agility, the ability to catch a ball while airborne and simultaneously being tackled by a human bulldozer – it’s poetry in motion, albeit violent, high-stakes poetry. And let’s not even start on the strategic aspects of the game itself. The playcalling! The formations! The way a coach can outwit an opponent with a perfectly timed deception, or a quarterback can read a defence and thread the needle with a pass that defies physics. It’s a masterclass in tactical brilliance; a chess match played at a hundred miles an hour. I cheer, I groan, I offer unsolicited (and entirely ignored) advice to the television screen.
The thing is, though, I am to put it mildly, not a sporty person. Never have been. My inherent athleticism hovers somewhere around “Couch Potato” and "Graceful Sloth." I was never picked for teams in school, and frankly, I was always a bit relieved. The bench, in my humble opinion, had a much better view of the action, and crucially offered a significantly lower risk of injury. My primary goal in any physical education class was "not to embarrass myself," a goal I achieved with varying degrees of success, mostly by attempting to blend seamlessly into the background scenery.
My body, you see, is not built for speed, agility, or indeed, any form of strenuous exertion that might involve a ball, a net, or the expectation of doing anything other than sitting down. The very idea of participating in most traditional sports causes me to break out in a cold sweat. Honestly, it’s an immediate physical reaction to the inevitable indignity of flailing limbs, missed catches, and the crushing disappointment of a losing team (probably because of me). I'm not built for contact, collision, even coordinated movement, or for that matter anything remotely useful for sport.
So, on the whole, my sporting life remains firmly rooted in the comfortable armchair. I am, unequivocally, more of a spectator than a player. I can appreciate the skill, the dedication, the drama of a perfectly executed play or a hard-fought match. I’ll cheer, I’ll groan, I’ll offer unsolicited advice. But to actually commit to doing it? To lace up the boots, step onto the field, and face down a 300-pound defensive tackle? No thank you, I’ll just watch from here, with cup of coffee safely within reach. Maybe some artisanal crackers. And a blanket. Definitely a blanket.
Now, this is where things get a bit uncomfortable. Because it disturbs me to say it, but it seems like this exact dynamic – this love for the game, this appreciation for its artistry – is precisely the same with my writing career, except that I desperately want to play.
It’s a bizarre paradox, isn't it? Here I am, a seasoned player (or at least, I like to think so). I know how to write. I love doing it. The act of crafting sentences, weaving narratives, conjuring worlds out of thin air – it's my joy, my solace, my mental playground. I understand the mechanics of good storytelling, the rhythm of prose, the strategic placement of commas. I appreciate the artistry of a beautifully turned phrase as much as I admire a perfectly executed quarterback sneak. And yet… I have benched myself. Not because I want to be on the sidelines, but because I can’t seem to find a "team" that wants me to play for them.
It's a strange kind of writer's block, isn't it? Not a lack of words, but a scarcity of opportunity. I'm there on the sidelines, helmet on, mouthguard in, doing my warm-up stretches (metaphorically, of course) and I can see all the other writers out there on the field. They’re making plays, scoring touchdowns, getting their articles published, their books reviewed, their blogs shared. I cheer them on, genuinely. I learn from their techniques, admire their courage. But the call for me to enter the game, to actually play for a professional team, feels frustratingly absent.
The difference between being a fan and being a player is stark in sports. A fan gets to enjoy the game, to critique it from a distance, to revel in the triumphs and commiserate over the losses. A player gets to create it, to be in the thick of the action, to contribute to something tangible. And only one of them gets to call it a career. It’s the same in writing. As a writer, I don’t want to be just a reader (or a fan). I want to be a creator, a contributor. I want my words to be part of the game. But the struggle to get off the bench, to find that elusive publishing house, that commissioning editor, that client who sees my potential and says, "Yes, we want you to play for us!" – that can be utterly paralysing.
The fear isn’t of losing, the fear is of not even getting a chance to play. I understand why I will forever be an enthusiastic spectator of American Football, but in the world of words, I desperately want to be on the field. I want to feel the exhilarating rush of the game, to make that perfect pass (a perfectly crafted paragraph), to score that touchdown (a published piece that resonates). My comfort zone might be the couch, but my true ambition is to trade the remote control for the keyboard, and to finally get off the sidelines and into the storyline. Being on the sidelines, observing the brilliant plays of other writers is inspiring, yes. But it's also a constant reminder of where I want to be. The truth is, sometimes the difference between being a spectator and a player isn't talent; it’s persistence and sheer volume of effort. And believe me, that I have!