What makes a bunch of forty-plus guys (no, not those fit, elegantly red-and-blue-clad ones in the picture…) wake up early in the morning on Sundays just to get their asses kicked, badly, it turns out, (Sun-)day in (Sun-)day out? Not sure, but it has definitely little to do with soundmindedness, if such a word exists (and my corrector disagrees on the point). It is bad enough that you think twice about going out on Saturday night because you already feel in your mouth that bitter, hangover taste and yet you know you have to get up because that is what a team-first guy does, and you make the extra effort… Of course, just to get mauled by much smarter, quicker, fitter little bastards with no other interest than winning friggin’ Sunday games. No, that’s not the worst part. The worst part does not even occur when you keep telling yourself “why am I here? Why did I do it again?,” no, the worst part opens up in front of you when you realize that you are just 1 of 10 other “teammates” of yours who decided to shorten their Sunday sleep-in to embark in the nightmare of a game that it has yet to start and you are already short-handed. Right then and there it sinks in: I must be crazy.