Somehow, though I haven’t watched a single minute of NFL television coverage yet this fall, I have been unable to escape the Coors Light beer commercials featuring shrunken mini-likenesses of famous former NFL coaches.

I should have known, when the New York Knicks began winning in November, that some sort of rift was opening up in the firewall that keeps our dreams separate from our collective reality.

One time I was in the checkout line at the grocery store, standing behind a dark-haired woman whose left arm was covered in tattoos. Another shopper—a young man wearing a summery straw hat—approached the woman and asked, “Do you mind if I take a picture of your heart tattoo to show my cardiologist stepfather?”

“It’s not a sport if you can play it with a beer in one hand.”

When I need a haircut, I go to a barbershop run by a pair of balding Italian brothers in Park Slope, Brooklyn. My hair is thin enough now that I’m no longer sure how often I should have it trimmed; is it better to keep it short all the time so people know I’m not trying to hide anything?

My friend Eric brought me a present from his latest trip to Africa: a margarine-yellow soccer jersey with racy red stripes that slash down from the shoulders.

Imagine a World Series primer narrated by Kenny Powers, the mullet-headed hero of the HBO comedy series “Eastbound and Down.”

This past week’s pro football storylines were, in a word, beautiful. First of all, before the games even began, there was the matter of Rush Limbaugh wanting to become an owner of the St. Louis Rams. The Rams totally suck this year, so something in Limbaugh’s wanting a piece of them feels, I don’t know, almost tender.