Some people might say I wasted a perfectly good weekend, but there are a several life lessons that can be divined from football.

The first lesson is this: false starts are bad. Let me back up a bit.

As soon as my wife was off the market, her sister, Toni, became the most desirable single female in Southern Utah. A healthy number of good Mormon boys would gladly have their bones broken and a kidney removed to be the focus of Toni's fickle heart.

My father says that love either is, or it isn't. So far, it "isn't" as far as Toni's suitors are concerned. She does her best to let them down easy but, inevitably, there's a bloke that doesn't get the hint -- as is the case with Brock.

Despite having a great name (it sounds like a building supply: "Well, I was thinking of putting up some drywall in the basement, but the kids'll be down there, so I'm thinking of putting up brock instead."), Brock has been the recipient of little more than the cold shoulder. Yet he continues to pursue Toni, making her bean dip (what better way to say "I love you?") and calling with militant persistence.

A man of few words, my brother-in-law, Derek, offered Toni this advice: "Pull him aside and say, 'Time to punt, buddy.'"

He's a sports-oriented Buddha, is Derek -- pudgy, enigmatic and wise.

In (American) football, one generally punts on fourth down, when it becomes obvious that the team is not going to make it any further down the field. You kick the ball away and basically start all over again.

My English friend, Andrew "Zippy" Chapman, argues that this great nation (the United States, for my high school readers) was essentially founded on a punt. The British, he says, were not particularly keen on waging war against what were basically more Brits. When it became obvious that light military action was not going to work, His Majesty George III's United Kingdom decided to just kick the ball away and let us have our little country. Someday, Andrew insists, it'll all go horribly pear-shaped and we'll come running back.

Lacking the foresight of 18th century empires, it can often be difficult for the average bloke to admit when it's time to punt.

Late at night, as Brock mixes his latest batch of bean dip, I'm sure he is hit with the painful realization that his chances with Toni are only slightly better than the chances of John Madden properly pronouncing Chris Fuamatu-Ma'afala's name.

But Brock probably can't allow himself to punt. Fuamatu-Ma'afala doesn't punt -- he gathers up a head of steam and goes for it on fourth down. No one knows the punter's name. No one wears Lee Johnson's jersey.

The dream of going for it on fourth down and succeeding is an intrinsic part of the human spirit.

Plus, we all know or have met that geeky guy -- bad teeth, bad hair, dumber than driftwood -- who somehow magically ends up with a supermodel wife.

"You were at about fourth and 22, with me," my wife told me recently.

Admittedly, refusing to punt can result in a lot of heartbreak. And it should be noted that Fuamatu-Ma'afala's team will be watching next week's games, while Johnson's team will be playing in one of them.

But I still say go for it.

Although, if I were Brock, I might change my strategy -- does he really want the bean dip to be all that successful?