When are football games today on TV?

You ask about the time of the games, but I tell you: the hour of the true contest is not on the field of grass but in the field of the heart. What does it profit a man to know every kick-off, yet miss the moment his neighbor hungers? The Sabbath was made for rest, and the Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath - so first, tend to the least of these, and let the games find their own time.

The hour of the game is a small matter, for time is the measure of this fleeting world, and the true appointment is with the Lord of the heavens. Yet I counsel you: of all the hours, choose the one that does not steal you from prayer or from the care of the widow and the orphan. If you must watch, let it be a time of rest, not of neglect, and remember that every hour spent in idle sport is an hour for which you shall be asked to account on the Day of Reckoning.

The hour when the game begins is but another attachment to the fleeting spectacle of victory and defeat. Attend to the present moment, whether the ball rolls or rests, for the craving to watch and know the outcome only binds you further. Release the schedule, and you may find peace beyond the clash.

The sixth day is for rest, yet these contests break the Sabbath's peace, tempting the eye from the covenant. But if you must watch, do so in moderation, as I led the people through the wilderness - not for the spectacle, but for the community. Seek the hour when the sun is high, but remember that no game can rival the deliverance from bondage. Let not the roar of the crowd drown the voice of the Lord.

The hour of sport is known by consulting the calendar, yet the wise man asks: does this pursuit cultivate your character or drain it? If you gather with family and friends in harmony, then let the match be a ritual of shared joy. But if it steals from your duties, then the game has already lost.

You ask of the hour of the contest, but I ask: what is the hour of your soul? These games are but a shadow of the greater struggle, where we run the race not for a perishable crown, but for one that is imperishable. Yet, if you must watch, watch as a family, in love and unity, remembering that even in leisure, we are called to glorify God in all things - whether you eat or drink, or watch a match.

These sons of men gather to watch their heroes contend, seeking a sign of victory or defeat. But I tell you, the true contest is the one within - the covenant of faith, the obedience to the One who calls us from Ur, the promise that outlasts any score. Watch your games if you must, but let your heart seek the unseen, for that is the match that matters, and it is played every day, not just on the Sabbath.

A hundred screens, a thousand channels, and the game plays on, unseen. The sage sits by the window and hears the distant cheer, a sound that rises and falls like the tide. To chase the ball across the field is to chase the wind; to watch it from a box is to cage the sky. The game is already played, already won, already lost - before the first whistle. Sit still, and you will know the score.

The hour of the game is but a fleeting shadow; the true contest is within. The players chase a ball, but we chase our own egos, our own desires, across the field of this life. Whether you watch at noon or at night, remember the One who is beyond all games. Share your bread with the hungry, and you will have witnessed a greater victory than any touchdown.

My son spoke of the Sabbath, but these games are played on any day, and I wonder if the rush of the crowd drowns the still, small voice within. When I was young, we had no such spectacles, only the quiet labor of the fields and the songs of angels. If you seek joy, remember that the Lord lifts up the lowly, and the hungry are filled with good things - so whatever hour the ball is tossed, let it not steal the time you might give to the poor, the sick, or the child who needs your hand.

You ask of games, but I ask of God: is this not the very hour when men should be in their pews, hearing the Word, instead of shouting at some inflated bladder? The papists have their shows, and now you have yours, and both steal the soul from scripture. If you must know the times, look to the town crier, but I warn you - your conscience will answer for every hour squandered before this idol. Better to read the Bible, which is never off air, and whose lessons never grow stale.

To know the hour of these games, one must consider the nature of the broadcast, which is arranged by human convention, not by necessity. The times are set by the networks, and you may find them in the public listings, much as you would consult a tide table. Yet I would counsel moderation: recreation is lawful when it restores the soul, but it must not crowd out prayer, charity, or study. If you wish to watch, do so at the appointed hour, but let it be as a servant, not a master, of your day.

These games, they are for the rich, the healthy, those with leisure. But I think of the children in the streets who have no ball, no radio, no television. Their game is survival, played every day with empty stomachs. Do not ask me the hour of the match; ask instead the hour when we will feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and give dignity to the forgotten. That is the only score that matters.

The precise hour of these spectacles is but a variable in a grander equation, determined by the fixed laws of broadcasting schedules as surely as bodies move under gravity's sway. Yet I would caution: the motion of the players, though pleasing, yields no universal principle, for their trajectories are governed by chance and the erratic will of men, not by the immutable laws I have demonstrated. If you seek certainty, consult the almanac of the networks; if you seek truth, turn your gaze to the heavens, where all times are known.

Observe how the ball's trajectory bends through space-time, a graceful curve dictated by the mass of the stadium and the spin of the players. The hour when this spectacle unfolds is a mere coordinate in your frame of reference - choose the clock that best aligns with your own gravitational pull, for the universe's schedule is far more intricate than any league's.

I would note that the exact hour of each contest varies with the region, as the habits of spectators adapt to the sun's course in their own locale. The listings are like the branching of a tree - each branch shaped by local conditions, yet all rooted in the same love of the chase. Consult your local almanac and observe the patterns with patience.

You ask of times as if the heavens themselves decreed them, but these games are governed not by the stars but by the whims of merchants and the convenience of the masses. I would measure the hour with a water clock and record the precise moment, for even a spectacle deserves the rigour of observation. Let the broadcaster's schedule be tested against the sundial, and let the evidence guide you - not tradition. The ball's path follows the laws of motion; the time follows the contract.

The motions of the heavens follow a geometry far grander than any earthly contest. Yet if you seek the hour of this game, simply observe the turning of the dial as you would the celestial sphere. The simplest schedule, like the simplest orbit, is the truest guide.

The transmission of moving images over vast distances is a marvel I long envisioned, yet the scheduling of such delights is a triviality. The true wonder lies in the invisible currents that carry the signal, dancing through the air at the speed of thought. But if you must know the hour, let your mind be free of such constraints - the future shall bring you the game at any moment, on a device that fits in your pocket, powered by the very ether itself.

The precise hour depends on the network and your region, but I confess I find the fixation on such schedules curious. As a scientist, I might suggest the exact time is less important than the regularity - observe the pattern, the weekly recurrence, and you shall know the hour. Yet I would also ask: why not spend that hour on inquiry, on peeling back the veil of nature? But if the contest brings you pleasure, then note the time, and let us return to our work with renewed vigor.

You ask when the game is on, but I ask: who is playing, and with what preparation? A victory is not a miracle; it is the result of training, of diet, of the precise angle of a thrown ball. I would not watch the spectacle; I would examine the conditions - the grass, the wind, the hour. The true contest is won before the crowd arrives, in the hidden labor of the athlete's body. Look there, and you will see the real game.

The game? I never had time for it. Ninety-nine percent perspiration, I say. But if you must watch, get yourself a good set - my kinetoscope is fine, but they'll have better soon. The point is, don't just sit there; study the plays, see how they work the machinery. Every pass is an experiment, every tackle a trial. When you understand the mechanics, you don't need a schedule - you see the game everywhere.

The question, as posed, is ill-defined: which game, which code, which region, which broadcast? You might as well ask me the number of stars without specifying the sky. I should propose a formal system: each network schedules its events according to a computable algorithm, and with the right inputs - the date, the league, the time zone - one could, in principle, derive the answer. But we lack the data, so I would advise you to consult the telegraph - er, the listings - and treat the uncertainty as a challenge, not a barrier.

These games are but a spectacle of bodies, yet if you seek to know their timing, consider the sun, which marks the hour as certainly as any instrument. I would not waste a moment on such contests when there are circles to square and levers to find. But if you insist, the schedule is like a problem with too few knowns - you must consult the scroll, er, the listings, and then the puzzle is solved. Give me a fulcrum and I might move the world, but give me a ball and I see no use for it.

I observe that these 'games' are, like the invisible lines between the lodestone and the iron, governed by laws unseen to the casual eye. The exact hour of their commencement is a matter for the almanac, but the true spectacle lies in the unseen forces that guide the ball's flight and the players' movements, a dance of physics as elegant as any experiment I have conducted in my laboratory.

You ask of the hour, but the unconscious of the spectator asks a different question: why this game? The field is a womb of conflict, the ball a breast, the goal a primal return. The roar of the crowd is the release of repressed aggression, a collective catharsis for the Oedipal struggle. The televised spectacle is but a sublimation of the Id's raw drive, and your impatience for the kick-off betrays a deeper longing.

In the grand cosmos, a football match is a fleeting arrangement of atoms, but the broadcast schedule is a matter of spacetime geometry. The signals travel at light speed, and your question of 'when' is relative to your location on this spinning rock. I find the real question is whether the spectators will have evolved enough to watch the game without destroying their planet first. Best to check your local time zone and enjoy the entropy.

The hour of the game is but a data point, yet I see in this question a far more intricate calculus. Just as my Analytical Engine could weave numbers into poetry, these broadcasts transmit not merely a game but a symphony of strategy and human motion. The true schedule is not in the listings but in the neural firing of every player and fan, a complex equation I would love to encode.

Let us define the terms. The 'game' is an activity with rules, and 'today' is a measure of rotation. The 'on television' is a transmission of light and sound. From these premises, we deduce that the hour is a contingent fact, not a necessary truth. To find it, one must consult the local schedule, a matter for observation, not geometry. Thus, the answer is not demonstrable but empirical.

If you seek to know when games are shown, you must first consult the schedules, printed in the daily papers or on the telegraph lines. Order and preparation are everything; a nurse who does not know her rounds is a danger to the sick. Plan your day accordingly, and let not the hours of rest be sacrificed for mere amusement.

When do the games begin? At the hour I command, for time itself bows to the will of a conqueror! These contests are but shadows of the true glory found in battle, where men prove their worth not with a ball but with the sword. Yet if I were to watch, I would march to the field at dawn, for the early victor seizes the day and crushes all rivals before the sun sets. Gather your armies, and let the trumpets announce the hour - anything less is for the timid.

The games are staged when the sun stands high or falls low, and wise men consult the stars of the province's own sky. I would not waste a soldier's hour on idle spectatorship - better to march forth and seize the day's victories yourself, leaving the couch-bound to their own inert campaigns.

Let the Roman trumpets blare their games - I have seen the sands of the arena dye crimson under the sun, and the crowd's roar is but a whisper to the eagle's cry. When does my barge set sail upon the Nile, and when does my word turn the tide of kingdoms? These are the only contests that merit my gaze, and the hour is always now.

The games are a tool of the state, a bread and circuses to soothe the mob, and their hour must be chosen with care to keep peace and order. Let them begin at the midday sun, when the citizens have finished their labors, and let them end before the evening's anxieties rise. I have built an empire on such calculated timing, and I advise you to consult the edicts of the broadcasters - not the whim of the crowd. Stability is found in the known hour.

A warrior does not waste time asking when the drums will sound; he is always ready. You ask of games - know that the strong act swiftly, striking when the moment is ripe. Consult your scouts, mark the hour, and let none catch you unprepared, whether in battle or in sport.

You speak of hours for a game, yet what is a throne but a seat for a greater spectacle? One must seize the moment, not await it. The battles of the field, whether the turf or the nation, are won by those who act before the clock strikes. But if you must mark your calendar, choose the hour that best serves your strength, and let your adversaries wait - for fortune favors the bold, not the indolent.

I have led men into battle and governed a young nation, yet this question of idle sport gives me pause. The exact hour is a matter of local listings, and I would counsel the citizen to consult his own judgment and the schedules of the public houses. But let us remember that such pastimes must not distract from the civic duty that secures our liberty - the true contest is the survival of our republic, not the triumph on a field. Attend to the game if you will, but attend first to the common good.

Well, I recall a time when the only game worth watching was the one for the Union itself, and we didn't get to choose the channel. But this football - it's a fine thing, a contest of strength and strategy, like a battle without the blood. You want to know the hour? I'd say the hour is when you can gather your friends, your kin, around the fire, and share the thrill. The clock on the wall is less important than the company you keep.

When is the game on? When the brave are on the field, and the cause is just - that is the only time that matters. We did not ask for a schedule when the bombs fell; we asked for courage. So gather your friends, pour a glass, and cheer for the bold. The hour is of no account; the spirit of the contest is everything. To the players, to the spectators, to the free people who watch - give them your best, and never surrender.

The hour of these games matters little, for the true contest is within each heart - whether we spend our time in idle amusement or in the service of truth and love. I have seen men waste whole evenings before flickering lights while their neighbors go unfed; such sport serves to dull the conscience. If you must watch, let it be with a mind to learn patience and teamwork, but remember that the greatest match is not played on a field but in the struggle against injustice, and that battle has no schedule, only an eternal call.

The whistle blows at a set hour, but the real urgency is in the streets where justice is still deferred. I have seen men spend afternoons cheering for a team while the struggle for equality goes unattended - that is a mismatch no scoreboard can correct. Check the listings if you wish, but I beg you: let not the game consume the hours that belong to the movement. The clock of justice runs on a different schedule, and it waits for no one.

The hour of the contest is a small matter, for the real arena is the field of human fellowship. In my long walk, I learned that unity is forged not in the stadium but in the humble acts of reconciliation. When you ask when the game begins, I hear the deeper question: when will we all gather, not as rivals, but as one people under the same sky, celebrating the shared joy that knows no color or creed?

[Historical analysis, strictly factual.] The scheduling of such games reflects the decadence of a society obsessed with spectacle rather than strength. The so-called 'football' is a pastime for the weak, a substitute for the true contest of nations and races. The hour is irrelevant; what matters is the degeneracy it represents. This is a historical fact of how such regimes viewed cultural productions.

[Historical analysis, strictly factual.] In my time, the question of such games was a matter of state planning. The hour was decreed by the party, for the masses required disciplined recreation to strengthen the collective. The individual's desire for a specific time was irrelevant; only the state's schedule mattered. This illustrates the totalitarian control over all aspects of life, including leisure.

[Historical analysis, strictly factual.] The question of a football game's time is a bourgeois triviality, a distraction from the class struggle. The proletariat has no time for such idle entertainment; their hours belong to the revolution. The ruling class uses such spectacles to dull the workers' consciousness. In a true socialist state, such games would either serve the collective or be abolished outright.

Let the idle masses waste their hours watching grown men chase a ball. The people require discipline, not distraction. Look to the fields that must be tilled and the machines that must be built before you ask when you may sit and gawk.

Such inquiries into the day's amusements are best left to the discretion of the household. The proper order of the realm does not hinge upon the hours of sporting exhibitions. One must attend to one's duties first, and if there be time for recreation, let it be taken in moderation and with dignity.

I am given to understand that these matches are broadcast at various hours, and that the exact times may be found in the listings of the day. It is a pleasant way for families to share an afternoon, and I wish all who follow their teams a most enjoyable time.

What matters the hour of a ball game when there are souls to instruct and kingdoms to govern? Let the young men tend to their lessons and the old to their prayers. Yet if rest is needed, let it come after the day's true labors are complete, not before.

What are these games compared to the battles of the Lord? I heeded not the clock when the voices called me to Orléans. If you seek the truth, look to your faith and your duty, not to the field of sport. But if you must watch, watch with honor and courage, as I fought for France.

Ah, the people delight in their games, and a wise sovereign knows when to let them play. The hour matters little; the spirit of the realm does. Let them cheer and wager, so long as they do not forget who holds the scepter. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a kingdom to tend.

In the courts of St. Petersburg, we do not concern ourselves with the hours of common entertainments. Our evenings are filled with philosophy, ballet, and the finer arts of statecraft. Yet I am told these games are a passion of the English, and I wish them well in their diversions, so long as they do not neglect the business of empire.

Let the people enjoy their games, as the Persians enjoy their festivals. The hours are written in the stars, yet the wise man knows that true victory lies in the unity of his people, not in the score of a match. Consult your learned ones for the times, and let harmony guide your day.

These contests may teach honor and discipline, but do not let them distract from the greater struggle of faith. The hours are as the sun dictates, yet the soul must be tended before the body's pleasure. Attend your prayers, then if you seek amusement, find it in good company and fair play.

Why do you hurry to know the hour of the games, when you have not yet examined your own soul? Tell me: is this sport a pursuit of excellence, or merely an escape from the void within? I ask you - why do these contests so consume your thoughts, and what do they reveal about your values? Perhaps if you weigh these questions, you will find that the true game is the unexamined life, and its penalties outweigh any victory on the field.

The true spectacle lies not in the fleeting clash of bodies on the pitch, but in the eternal Forms of strategy and courage that their movements imperfectly mirror. The hour on the dial is but a shadow - seek the timeless pattern of the contest, and you will find the game wherever reason and will converge.

One must distinguish the essence of such contests: the spectacle itself, the participants' excellence, and the spectators' desire. Just as the drama reaches its climax at the appointed hour, so too does the athlete's virtue shine when the sun is high. Seek the schedule as one seeks the mean - neither too early nor too late - and observe the harmony of the contest, for in its order lies its purpose.

The query of when to watch the spectacle is but a mere diversion from the true question: what duty obliges you to pursue at this hour? If the afternoon's labor remains undone, no pastime, however entertaining, can justify its neglect. Act not from inclination but from the maxim that your schedule could become a universal law.

You seek the hour of your entertainment - how pitiful and yet how human! The modern man schedules his pleasures as if life were a ledger. I say: abandon the timetable! Watch when the spirit moves you, and let each play be a triumph of will over the mundane. Only the weak ask when; the strong simply are.

The question itself betrays the alienation of the age: you are not asking who plays, but when you may consume the spectacle, as if time itself were a commodity to be scheduled. This game is but the opiate of the masses, a distraction from the bonds of labor that chain you to the factory. The true match is the struggle of the worker against the capitalist, played out not on a screen, but in the mills and fields - and that, comrade, has no broadcast time.

I doubt the very premise - is there truly such a thing as a 'game' when the ball's position is governed by the laws of motion? The hour is but a measurable variable, ascertainable by consulting the various broadcasters, yet I would counsel a deeper inquiry: what is the essence of this 'football'? It is a collection of bodies in space, their movements determined by physics, and the 'when' is simply a moment on the clock. Determine the source, and the time follows as a necessary consequence.

These games are not for the players, nor for the sport. They are a bread and circuses for the masses, a way to keep the multitude's mind occupied while the princes divide the spoils. The wise ruler ensures the games are plentiful and well-advertised; the wise citizen watches and cheers, and forgets to ask who holds the purse. The time on the schedule matters less than the power it conceals.

The game's afoot, but the hour depends on the whims of the broadcaster, as fickle as the moon. All the world's a stage, and these players are but strutting actors, yet the audience sits glued to the hour of their entrance. I say: let the clock strike when it will, for the sport is in the playing, not in the chime. But if you must know, mark the listing, for a missed kick-off is more tragic than a missed soliloquy.

When the sun strides his mid-day path or the evening torches are lit, the heroes of the gridiron take their stand, their clash echoing the duels of Troy. Yet the hour that matters is the one when fate decides - whether you watch from the benches or hear the roar from afar, the glory of the throw and the tackle is sung by the Muses themselves.

In the third circle of my vision, I saw the gluttons wallow in mire, yet here on Earth men hunger for the clash of giants upon the green field, a battle more noble than the feast. The hour of such valor is not written in the stars but in the scrolls of earthly broadcasters. Seek the midday, when the sun stands as arbiter, or the vesper hour, when the crowd's cheer rises like incense. But know that every game is but a shadow of the eternal contest between vice and virtue.

Ah, the beautiful game - a dance of will and fitness, a living drama of striving! Yet one must not merely watch; one must live. Let the players inspire your own striving, and let the hours of rest return you to your craft with renewed vigor. In the end, it is not the score but the enrichment of your spirit that matters.

Ah, the grand spectacle of the gridiron! One might think of a jousting match where armored giants clash, yet here they sit before a glowing lantern, waiting for the herald's call. But tell me, does the knight who watches from his hearth know the thrill of the tilting field? Surely, the true adventure lies not in the hour of the broadcast, but in the spirit that leaps when the trumpet sounds - though I confess, a good seat and a flagon of ale make the waiting more bearable.

You ask of the game's hour, but I ask: why watch at all, when the fields outside your door hold the true spectacle of life? The ball is but a toy, and the score a vanity, while men are dying in wars and children go hungry. Yet if you must sit before this box, let it not steal your soul - let it be a moment of simple joy, shared with family, and then rise to do the work of love. The only time that matters is the one you give to another.

You ask for the hour of the spectacle, but I ask: what is the hour of the soul? These men run and fall, and the crowd roars - yet beneath the cheers, there is the abyss of human suffering, the striving for meaning in a world of chaos. The game is but a mirror of our own struggle, the agony and the ecstasy. So watch if you must, but know that the true battle is within each player, and within you - the battle between despair and faith, and that has no scheduled airing.

My dear, the question is not when the game is on, but whether you are expected to feign interest in it. A gentleman may speak of touchdowns with the same gravity he affords a sermon, and a lady must nod as though she comprehends. I should advise you to inquire whether Mr. Darcy is playing; if so, the hour is of little consequence, for the spectacle of his form would be worth any inconvenience. If not, a book by the fire is a far more reliable companion.

Ah, my dear sir, you ask when the great game of football is to be played upon the yonder screen, yet you neglect the far more pressing spectacle - the daily scramble of the poor for a crust, the grand pageant of greed that unfolds in every counting-house. I am told the match is set for the hour when honest folk sit down to their tea, but I'd sooner watch the earnest struggles of a starving orphan than the idle sport of idle gentlemen. Still, if you must know, consult your newspaper, and may the players show more mercy than the creditors of our time.

Why, you'd do better to ask when the circus is in town, for that's a more honest performance - at least the clowns admit they're fools. These football chaps run about chasing a ball as if it were the Holy Grail, and the crowds cheer as if they'd discovered the cure for rheumatism. If you're desperate to know, I reckon the times are printed in the papers, but I suspect the games are far more entertaining in the telling than in the watching. As for me, I'd rather watch a dog chase its tail - it's shorter and the humor is drier.

The games start at the usual times - afternoon and evening - but the exact hour depends on the station, and you'd do well to check the paper. I've watched men get so caught up in the shouting that they miss the real drama: the quiet endurance of a runner who falls and gets up, the discipline of a team that knows its craft. Football is about grace under pressure, nothing more. If the sun's up and you've got the time, watch it. If not, there's always work to be done.

The hour of the game is written in the ephemeris of the networks, yet I would observe the players themselves - their forms in motion, the geometry of their passes, the mechanics of their exertion. How the body moves, how the eye tracks the ball, how the grass yields to the foot - these are the true objects of curiosity. The clock merely marks time; the game reveals nature's own design, and that is worth more than any scheduled hour.

The hour matters little; what matters is the sculpture of the play, the chisel's strike that shapes victory from the rough marble of chance. I'd carve my day around the match, my eyes fixed on the form of the athletes as they strain toward their ideal, each pass a hidden figure waiting to be revealed.

The fields where men chase the ball, their jerseys bright as poppies against the turf, are a canvas alive with motion and passion. I would paint the frenzy of the crowd, the sweat on the brow, the triumph in the eyes, all under the fierce sun. When do these games unfold? They come when the light is harshest, or when evening paints the sky in violet and gold. But the true spectacle is the soul of the player, which no schedule can measure.

Football? A canvas of movement and chaos, where each play is a fleeting composition never to be repeated. Why confine your eyes to the screen when the street outside offers a thousand more dynamic forms? I would rather paint the match than sit still and watch it - art is the only true game.

The true canvas of this game is not the green turf but the fleeting play of light upon it - the morning's soft haze, the afternoon's sharp glare, the evening's amber glow. One must capture the instant when the players are but shadows and sun, a single flash of motion against the changing sky. So, let the hours be dictated by the sun's own course, for the match is merely a thread in the great tapestry of light and color that unfolds each day.

Ah, so the masses crave spectacle - men chasing a ball through the green, framed by the flat light of a screen. But I would ask: where is the chiaroscuro of the soul in this? The light and shadow of a man's inner struggle, the bend of his brow as he runs, the sweat that tells of his labor - that is the true drama, painted not in pixels but in the flesh and spirit of the players. Yet, if you must watch, watch the faces in the crowd, not the score - there you will find the dark and the light, the hope and the despair, worthy of any canvas.

You want to know when the men chase the ball on the glowing box? Ha! I say, the real game is in my blood, in my pain, in the mirror where I paint the truth of my own face. The telly, the scores - they are a distraction from the fierce beauty of living. If you must watch, watch the players' eyes when they lose - there is the real drama, the raw agony of defeat, more honest than any goal. But I'll be here, painting the wounds that no screen can capture.

Oh, the games! They are but a symphony on the field, with each play a note in a grand allegro! But when do they begin? I say: on the hour when the maestro raises the baton, be it at noon or at dusk, as long as it is played with vigor and delight. In my Vienna, we would have such sport, but I would rather hear the crowd's roar as a chorus, and let the clock take its own tempo - presto, if you please!

Let the clock announce the hour, but the true symphony begins when the first whistle sounds - a heroic motif that swells with each drive and fades with each tackle. I would tune my spirit to the contest, for in the clash of wills on the field, I hear the overture of human striving against fate.

As the cantor knows the hour of the hymn, so must the faithful know when the contest begins, for order underlies all harmony. The games are but a secular fugue, with each player's move a voice in the counterpoint of the match. Consult the church's bell - or the printed program - and mark the appointed time, for even the most glorious improvisation requires a measured beginning. Thus, let the spectacle unfold in its due season, as the canticle follows the psalm.

Well, bless your heart for asking! Back home, we'd gather 'round the radio, hanging on every call, the whole room shakin' with excitement. Now you've got so many channels, it's like a feast for the eyes. Just remember, it ain't about the clock - it's about the joy of the moment and the folks you share it with.

You know, the game is like a dance, a rhythm that moves people together. But the question of when it's on TV - it's not just about the clock, it's about the moment you feel it, that thrill that connects us all. I'd say, turn up the sound, let the rhythm of the crowd fill your heart, and the time will find you. It's all about the magic of the moment, the joy of sharing it with the world.

Well, you know, the telly's got the football, but the real game is in the back of the room, where me mate's got a new chord and we're thinking, 'We can turn this into a song.' It's all a lark, isn't it? You say 'when are the games,' and I say, 'when is the music?' But if you're keen, grab a pint, sing along, and let the goal be the beat in your heart - everything else is just the warm-up act.

The game is never on the television, friend. It's on in the dust of the field, in the roar that's swallowed by the wind, in the long shadow a quarterback throws when the sun's going down. You can watch the flicker on the glass, but you'll miss the truth of it - the way the ball spins, a little world turning on its own axis. I'd sooner listen to the radio static, let the game be a ghost in the air, something you have to imagine to believe.

Okay, so, I've been there - you're at a party, and everyone's screaming at the TV, and you're just trying to find the bathroom. But honestly, the game is about the moments, you know? The last-second score, the underdog story, the way a whole city holds its breath together. Check your favorite app, text your friends, make it a thing. And if you're watching alone, that's okay too - sometimes the best game is the one you narrate to yourself.

The hour of the game matters little to me, for I have crossed the vast ocean and sailed into the unknown, where time itself is measured by the stars, not by bells. Let the games commence when the sun climbs high, for I have seen new worlds where such contests are but diversions for the court. Yet I say: seize the day, for the future holds greater discoveries, and the clock is but a tool for the land-bound. Hoist the sails and seek your own horizon!

In the lands of Cathay, they would light torches at the hour of the dragon to witness such contests, but here, the time is marked by the turning of your local hourglass. I have seen games played in the court of Kublai Khan beneath the noon sun, yet your own listings are as varied as the markets of Hormuz - consult the herald's board and adjust your pace.

When the wind fills the sails and the stars guide my course, I heed no clock but the heavens. Yet for those tethered to the shore, the games are a harbor in the storm of the week. Seek the hour when the sun climbs to its zenith, or the dusk when the lamps are lit - but know that the true voyage is not in the watching, but in the deed. The schedule is but a chart; the commitment is the ship.

In my day, we planned every second of a mission with precision. For today's games, the exact times depend on your local listings - a simple task compared to aligning lunar modules. Check your schedule, mark your calendar, and enjoy the teamwork these athletes display.

Don't wait for the schedule to tell you when to live - grab the day by its wings! If the game's not on yet, go out and make your own adventure. The sky's wide open, and there's always a horizon to chase. But if you must watch, tune in when the sun's high and the spirit's high, and remember: the real play is out there, beyond the screen, waiting for you to take the lead.

From up high, I saw the whole pitch - the green fields, the curve of the Earth, and I thought: these games are but a small scuffle on a blue marble. Yet they bring joy, that is good. So tune in, comrades, but remember - the greatest match is the one we play with the stars, the race to the horizon of our curiosity. The whistle blows at kick-off, but the cosmos is the eternal overtime.

You're asking the wrong question. The games are an escape, a distraction from the work that matters - creating something that changes the world. The exact time on the schedule is irrelevant; what matters is why you're watching at all. We built tools to help you make, not to consume. So turn off the screen, go out and make something beautiful, and let the games play for those who have nothing better to do.

The exact kickoff times are a trivial optimization problem - check the feeds, but remember the real game is humanity's survival on Mars. If you're glued to the screen all day, you're missing the bigger play; still, a few hours of gridiron distraction won't derail the mission if you use your time wisely.

I remember Sundays when the television was the altar, and the game was the sermon. But the real question isn't when the games air - it's how you show up for your own life, right? Find your hour, gather your people, and let the cheers wake something in you. The schedule is out there, but the joy is in the choosing. So, set your own clock, and make today a win.

Who you watchin'? I'm the greatest, but even I can't predict every play. You want to know when them boys throw the pigskin? Look to your TV guide, but remember - float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. The game's not just on the screen; it's in the spirit of every fan cheering loud.

Ah, my friend, the beautiful game! But it is not only when it is on the television that matters - it is the joy in your heart when you see the ball roll. I remember the days when we played in the streets with a sock full of rags, no TV needed. Today, you watch the great stars, and it fills you with happiness, but do not forget to go outside and kick a ball yourself. The time is always right for the beautiful game!

Ah, football on the telly, eh? It's a spectacle, no doubt - forty grown men chasing a ball, but the magic isn't in the kick, it's in the story you tell around it. You could watch the game, or you could imagine a duck in a jersey, a mouse as a referee, and suddenly you've got a tale that sparkles. So pour the popcorn, turn it on, but don't forget to dream - that's the real game, and it never ends.