a salute to whoever paints the end zones. somewhere there is a person on their knees in october with a stencil, a tape measure, and a deep understanding that 32 fanbases will judge the font before they judge the offense. you get one shot at the lettering, the wind is not your friend, and by week eleven a defensive tackle has chewed through your serif. across the league the grass crew gets zero credit and takes all the blame, which is the most honest job in football. i've watched twenty-five years of end zones and not one of you has ever said thank you. i'm saying it now. the paint is the only thing on that field nobody has ever pretended was fixed