Dolphins vs. Jets, Oct. 2009. (hcabral, Creative Commons)

Understand that I love living in Los Angeles. Having grown up on the east coast, I honestly, dearly, truly appreciate the great state of California. The weather is always gorgeous, most people live in a perpetual state of relaxation, and weed is legal as long as you have a mediocre excuse and some spare cash.

Despite my adoration for Los Angeles, though, I can only love it for 35 weeks of the year. For the other 17, I hate the city with all of my heart.

See, as long as I can remember I have slept in on Sundays, waking up just in time to throw on my Sunday best jersey, sink into a La-Z-Boy recliner, and preach the gospel of professional football. 17 straight weeks of unadulterated regular season bliss, beginning at 1 p.m., and ending as late as midnight. An unspoken tradition that I hold sacred.

Until I moved to California.

Due to a, quite frankly unnecessary, 3-hour time difference and lack of regional interest in the sport, my Sundays are miserable.

Nowadays I set my alarm clock for 9 a.m., every Sunday regardless of how late I stayed out the night before, in hopes that I will be able to drag myself over to the couch before halftime of the day’s first set of games. Alone I sit, fully delirious, hoping the terrible San Diego Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, or Oakland Raiders will be playing a team I at the very least, sort of, kind of care about.

Not yet being noon, I will be denied hot wings and pizza – the staples of my traditional Sunday diet – because no restaurants are even open to deliver me non-breakfast food. Truly disgusting. Back home, people would not dare go to the supermarket or order food an hour before game time unless they wanted to have to wait for hours in hunger to get food and miss the heavenly singing of the Star Spangled Banner. In Los Angeles, the supermarkets and restaurants are closed an hour before the games all begin.

Eventually, around 7:30 p.m., the day’s games will be done and I will have an absurd amount of time to do other, non-football related things. I have always believed that Sunday should start with football and end with football, no exceptions. What am I supposed to do with all that time between the last game and bedtime? There are only so many times a man can watch the day’s highlights on ESPN.

Making matters even worse, Monday Night Football, the culmination of the weekly holiday, ends before the sun even sets over the smoggy city of Los Angeles.

Consider this a warning to all football loving, jersey-wearing, fantasy-obsessed, east coasters wanting to come to the west coast. People here are just too busy sculpting their bodies, going outside, and reading TMZ to care about the game that means too much to us. You can still love football and live on the west coast, but do not expect to meet Californians who love and respect the sport as much as you.

There is a reason the San Diego Chargers struggle to sell out their games. People in California have too many other things to do than care about football when their hometown team cannot win games. Living in extremely fair weather makes for the most fair-weathered fans possible.

There are discussions about which NFL team will be brought to Los Angeles in yet another effort to establish professional football in this city, which obviously does not care about professional football. If Los Angeles were a great market for a football team, either of the two football teams that were already in Los Angeles would have stayed in Los Angeles. It seems as if businessmen are too blinded by the potential to make money to realize that a football team should not be brought to this sports wasteland.

People in Los Angeles do not deserve a football team because they just do not understand the culture of professional football fandom. Football games are not places to see and be seen, like every game at the Staples Center, but a communal experience, which invigorates and enlightens the soul. Fans cannot be forced to care, and the denizens of Los Angeles will only feign enthusiasm for so long.

Cities like Boston and Pittsburgh understand what it means to have a football team. Maybe it is because of the time difference, or maybe even because of the entertainment industry, but there is just something odd about watching football out here. Los Angeles, I am afraid, will never fully appreciate what it means to have a professional football organization.

Meanwhile, I will continue to love football and loathe Sundays in Los Angeles. I will continue to wear my Ricky Williams Dolphins jersey every Sunday; even if nobody around me knows what position he plays. That’s just what fans do.