It’s not a full moon

Remember when football was a man’s sport? I do. I remember when my grandfather sat on the couch with a beer in one hand and a beer in the other, eating a tuna sandwich slapped together in haste during a commercial break. He had money on the Giants (he always did) and sat swearing a blue streak he must have learned in the Navy. Would Jimmy “The Midget” Vitale—retired garment inspector, WWII veteran, loudmouth with a heart of gold—have been offended by the faux moon (defined, by this blog, as a moon performed while fully clothed) delivered