Life can be difficult if you approach it with high expectations. You vote for a new President expecting him to live up to his promises, for example, and inevitably you are disappointed. That’s not a problem for me, because I grew up with Electric Football.
Electric Football was a toy, but its ads portrayed it as more than that. You would be a 12-year-old coach of a team of hardened football players. You would put them on a beautiful green field of gridiron glory. They would run plays that you designed, that pitted your football prowess against that of your opponent — tough up-the-gut fullback plunges, all-out blitzes, and the occasional, beautiful breakaway sprint down the sideline to the end zone. This was a toy that UJ and I had to have.
We finally got it one Christmas. We opened it, found the beautiful green field of Electric Football Stadium — and then found a bunch of cheap, flimsy plastic football players. The football itself was made out of lighter-than-air pink foam. We tried running a few plays, which meant placing your players on the field and then turning a switch to start the Electric Football Excitement. The field would throb with an annoying hum, the surface would vibrate, and the players would rattle around. No matter what the call, be it Cleveland Browns sweep, tight buttonhook, or long bomb, every play ended the same way — with every player moving randomly on the surface, some toppling over, and most eventually clustered on the sidelines, facing outward.
What a rip-off! We quickly realized that there was no true gridiron glory to be had with Electric Football, so we decided to make the best of it. We designed grossly illegal formations like the flying wedge or the ultimate volcano, in hopes a getting a player to the end zone. When even that got boring, we gave up, put the Electric Football in the closet, and promptly forgot about it.
So, when it comes to our politicians, my expectations are low. I anticipate random activity, I’m happy if they aren’t too lightweight and their humming isn’t too annoying — and I’ll gladly forget they exist after too many disappointments.