The Football Fan's Manifesto (3 page)
Read The Football Fan's Manifesto Online
Authors: Michael Tunison
I.3 The Football Fan Is the Next Evolution of Man
To the layperson, the above football fan may come across as contented and entertained, if not in an alcohol-induced catatonic state. But behind the drunken haze lies a troubled and sorely bereft fan aching for the most basic accoutrements of true NFL fanhood. Where is his laptop to get live fantasy scoring updates? Is he watching on HD with a satellite package or simply relying on national networks to dictate which game he watches? His food options are also shockingly thin, to say nothing of the staggering lack of NFL licensed gear adorning his person. If his team is to perform well, who is he to mock? If they lose, who can he get into a fist fight with?
This man deserves better. Likely he is only carving out a meager allotment of time with football so that later he can repair to what he considers to be more important tasks. That’s bullshit, of course. Fanhood is bigger than life. It’s part of the larger cause of advancing the interests of your team. Football fans oftentimes get a bad rap. We are considered the most boorish, the most idiotic, the most violent, and the most Zubaz-pants clad of all spectators in the sporting world. All this, of course, is completely true, but is that such a bad thing? Well, except the Zubaz pants—those things really are horrendous. The rest you should embrace.
Counting sixteen regular season games, up to four postseason games (fans of the Bengals, Rams, Lions, and Raiders please disregard), four or five agonizingly point
less preseason games, the Pro Bowl, and the two days of the draft, fans get less than one full month each year to spend watching their favorite team do anything remotely football-related. The other 330 or so days are about filling blank space, a task that becomes more and more difficult with each passing off-season. Seriously, any chance we can get some free tickets for having to go through that shit? At least a team schedule printed on a refrigerator magnet? Anything?
To make matters worse, with each year football as we knew and loved it is being wrest away. Roger “Fidel” Goodell, in his brief tenure as commissioner, has shown the unyielding iron fist of a tyrant in trying to shape the league into the anodyne version of football that he has convinced himself will broaden its appeal. Included in his authoritarian bag of tricks are expanding and cracking down on what he considers an excessive show of force on the field with an outrageously liberal application of fines. At the same time, Goodell autocratically attempts to curb our American-born right to enjoy football as loutishly as we like with an oppressive fan-conduct policy. In response to a spate of fines of his teammates, Troy Polamalu (the heavily tressed Pro Bowl safety of the Pittsburgh Steelers), dubbed the machinations of exalted chairman Goodell as the transformation of the NFL into a “pansy league.” Though Polamalu was only referring to the tactics Goodell has employed to neuter the sport of its core toughness on the field, we would like to think the soft-spoken but hard-
hitting Samoan was also alluding to the lengths the Ginger Generalissimo has gone to Disney-fy the game on its periphery, alienating its established base of fans in favor of attracting the kind of lifeless, halfhearted spectators who characterize a baseball crowd.
The metaphor of football as warfare has always struck some as ridiculous, but in recent years it has become more apt, if only for the way armed conflicts and professional football are presented to us in increasingly sanitized ways. Certainly, the ugliness is scrubbed from each for different reasons: war, so the country can continue to wage them without losing public opinion; football, so the league can cozy up to tight-assed corporations and the so-called family market those companies covet. But we want the truth, warts and all. The game is dirty, violent, and ugly and meant both to excite us and make us a bit uncomfortable. In turn, we should not be expected to act like we’re watching a match at Wimbledon.
To those with the fortitude and the desire to meet the standards of a steel-willed, ravaged-livered fanatic, I urge you to press on, flask and giant foam finger in hand. Being a true fan is a lifelong commitment more demanding than either your career or your marriage (that is, if you happen to be saddled with such things—please note that they are fine distractions for the spring and summer but they only serve as encumbrances come autumn time). Ultimately, it’s the fandom that sustains you and gives you purpose, not to mention a socially acceptable excuse to get sloppy
drunk for weekends at a time. More importantly, it gives you a fellowship with others who follow the creed and live the code. These are the people who understand you, who spill beer on you and call you nasty hate-filled epithets in the parking lot. In short, they are extensions of yourself, but in a way that doesn’t make you sexually uncomfortable. Well, most of the time. People can be excused for getting carried away when the team wins.
II.1 Pick a Team, Any Team. Just Pick One and Only One
Picking a team is the most important decision of your life, so don’t screw it up by picking the Lions and know what you’re getting into if you pick the Cowboys (being loathed). Time is of the essence, so don’t be like Brett Favre and drag out your decision for an eternity. The absolute deadline to pick a team is your eighth birthday. Before that, you are in sports infancy and can be as willy-nilly and bandwagon-prone with your fandom as your wee widdle heart desires. Up until the third grade, kids don’t understand even the basic principles and pathologies of rooting for a team. Because kids are stupid. At that critical eighth year, something activates in the brain that solidifies sports allegiance. Ask any neurologist, they’ll back me up on this. It’s science. Political leanings can be fluid. You can have an epiphany later in life that can make you change parties, change philosophies, hell, even change gender, but if at any point after that eighth birthday, even so much as
one day later you switch teams, you are rendered a failure as a person and subject to public shunning and completely justified brutality.
There are any number of factors that can determine who your favorite team may be. For most, it’s a matter of where they spent their childhood or who their parents pulled for. These are perfectly reasonable and probably the most universally accepted justifications for liking a team. But they should not be considered the only ones.
Contrary to the hometown rule, you can latch onto a team for any number of superficial reasons. For example, Chiefs fans share a common love for suffering multiple heart attacks before the age of forty. Others may be captivated by one superstar athlete. You can be stuck in an area that skirts several fan-base boundaries. Hell, you can adopt a team for otherwise contemptible causes, picking one that wins all the time or even one that has uniforms and a logo you like. For the latter two, you’re going to have to make up another excuse when someone asks you the origin of your fandom. Under no circumstances should you divulge those disgraceful enticements.
What matters most here is the timing. As long as you commit to a team early enough in life, no one can question you for it. Though they will find a way to insult you, it’s because that’s the way football discourse works. And, of course, you can never switch teams for any reason other than your team relocating from a city. If the overwhelming power of your allegiance demands you to follow that
team to its new hometown, more power to you, but you are by no means compelled to do so. Just remember, don’t pick the Browns. Or the Bills. And God help you if you end up with the Texans. But then, He only helps those who help themselves, leaving you doubly forsaken.
2.2 Who You Root for Defines Who You Are
Maybe you thought the choice of your favorite team really was an offhand decision you could make based solely on who has the coolest uniforms or which player endorsed your favorite car dealership. Maybe think again. Even though Haroldson’s Toyota is the tits, there are many other more important considerations, life-lasting ones, to account for before making this most critical selection.
No matter which team you settle on as you own, a set of prevailing stereotypes and shorthand associations will immediately be assigned to you by fans of other teams and by the media at large. Knowing these beforehand will prove instructive and may inform your selection process. After all, you’ll want to know why everybody else at Gillette Stadium only boos the black players.
Arizona Cardinals
—Now that the team’s been to a Super Bowl, people actually realize that you exist. Moreover, once the team made it to the dance, Arizona Cardinals fans themselves finally came into existence, as if the NFC championship victory over the Eagles were a big bang to begin the Arizonaverse.
Prior to that, any Cardinals-following was about as tangible as the campus of the University of Phoenix, the unfortunate naming rights holders for the team’s stadium in Glendale.
Atlanta Falcons
—Your threshold for dogfighting jokes is shorter than most, though you can’t deny the appeal of the occasional canine brawl to the death. It’s a cultural thing, after all. Pulling for the Falcons makes you an ardent Home Depot apologist and leaves you unable to watch a football game unless a Ludacris track is heard every stoppage in play. If you’re white and dancing the Dirty Bird, you’ve waived any legal expectation not to be dragged from the back of a truck. Same goes for anyone who considers Matty Ice an acceptable name for a crappy domestic beer, let alone a quarterback.
Baltimore Ravens
—Wait, what’s that? What happened to your legs? I can’t see them with those purple-tinged army camouflage pants you’ve got on. Those must come in handy when engaging in tactical military missions in fields of lilacs. Yes, Baltimore is the proud home of John Waters, and therefore a bastion of tackiness, but c’mon. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should. I only mean to poke fun, Ravens fans. I’d hate for your defense to take out a bounty on me.
Buffalo Bills
—Oh Lord. You poor wretched thing. The pain you’ve been through. The crushing disappointment, the wrenching stench of defeat, the unbear
able suffering that comes with each passing day. Oh, I’m just talking about living in Buffalo. You root for the Bills too? Quite the glutton for punishment, aren’t we? No wonder you signed Terrell Owens.
Carolina Panthers
—The Panthers made it to the NFC Championship Game in only their second year of existence and had a Super Bowl appearance in their first decade, so fans have had it a little better than most during the team’s brief run. (Still, they’d give it all up for one more national championship for the Tar Heels.) Don’t envy them too much, though. They’ve each had a relative gunned down by Rae Carruth in callously indifferent blood.
Chicago Bears
—A team with a hard-nosed tradition and a proud history is bound to foster some committed fans. But when those committed fans assume that every iota of team news, no matter how esoteric, is worthy of universal attention, that’s when you must forcibly sterilize them with garden shears. To their credit, Bears fans, and players alike, can cultivate a damn fine neck beard.
Cincinnati Bengals
—You’ve been conditioned to despise owner Mike Brown and continually live in despair, yet you still manage to root for the least embarrassing modern-era team in your state. Go you! Being a fan of the only Ohio team to reach a Super Bowl can be a heady experience. Try not to be too smug to the Browns fans when the Bengals pick up their third win
in Week 16. The team’s brief flirtation with respectability brought with it a reputation for lawlessness. Fortunately, the Bengals have cleaned up their act and, in doing so, have plunged back into irrelevancy. No wonder they keep bringing back Chris Henry.
Cleveland Browns
—The milkbone in your mouth lost its flavor months ago. Your sons are named for Bernie Kosar and your daughters for Brady Quinn. Lawlessness is certain to descend upon the city’s streets now that “fucking soldier” Kellen Winslow Jr. has been dealt to Tampa Bay. You will have to rely on your nonpareil bottle-throwing skills to protect you.
Dallas Cowboys
—The Cowboys were dubbed “America’s Team” by the vice president of NFL Films in the ’70s after he asked Steelers’ owner Art Rooney if he wanted his team to have the distinction and Rooney refused it. Sorry, Cowboys fans, you were America’s second choice. But if ever there were a vote on which fan base to wipe from the earth, there’s no doubt Dallas backers would finish first.
Denver Broncos
—While other fans struggle with high elevations, Broncos fans are capable of being irritating up to ten thousand feet above sea level. The franchise has been lingering in a rough patch since the retirement of horsey-faced quarterbacking demigod John Elway. At last it seemed Broncos fans had a suitable successor in sulking extraordinaire Jay Cutler. That is, until new coach Josh McDaniels floated his
name in trade talks, causing Cutler’s face to go from sulk to full-on makeup smearing sob. At least Denver fans won’t have to invest in a new player’s jersey for a while.
Detroit Lions
—ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO WORSHIP HERE. The 0-16 season has allowed your team its stake in history, however opprobrious. You’re still convinced Barry Sanders is going to return one of these years. When he finally does, he’ll be swarmed by a rabid pack of Lions fans demanding answers. He’ll run ten yards backward, reverse field twice, fake out six of them, and still get tackled for the prettiest two-yard loss you ever saw.
Green Bay Packers
—True cosmopolitans, Packers fans are far too occupied exploring other cultures and expanding their understanding of the world to have any time for football. Just kidding. They’re obsessive small-town bumfucks who, though they are traumatized by the very mention of Brett Favre, long for the Gunslinger to return to Wisconsin to be the godfather of all their children and eventually run for governor, only to occupy the position long after his rotting corpse decomposes in its seat.
Houston Texans
—As the team’s name suggests, Texans fans are an awfully creative bunch. When the city received an NFL franchise again in the early 2000s, citizens were stymied to come up with another mascot. NASA is based in the area, but the Rockets
have that covered. What else is there, other than immense sprawl and inescapable gridlock? Oh, right: Texas! Run with that.
Indianapolis Colts—
In an odd coincidence, no fan base has perfected the jersey-tucked-into-khaki-pants look quite like that of the Colts. At the same time, no other team’s fans own as many of the dreaded shirseys (a T-shirt made to look like a jersey). Following the lead of recently retired head coach and fundamentalist Christian Tony Dungy, Colts fans try to run down at least one gay person en route to Lucas Oil Stadium.
Jacksonville Jaguars
—Congratulations! You’re the first-ever Jaguars fan! Hopefully that doesn’t mean you live in Jacksonville. Should that be the case, the person reading this book for you should have the tact to skip this entry.
Kansas City Chiefs
—Like so many others, you’ve been victimized by the postseason choking tendencies of Marty Schottenheimer. You thought that would leave an indelible scar on you, but then Herm Edwards showed up and showed you what true inadequacy was all about. With Edwards now recently departed, Matt Cassel and Todd Haley have arrived to usher in a new era of crushing disappointment in K.C.
Miami Dolphins
—There are two types of Dolphins fans: retirees who need OnStar to reach the stadium and cocaine dealers who try to move product in the parking lot. For those looking at getting back into
the weed game, Ricky Williams probably has a good connection for you.
Minnesota Vikings
—Vikings fans take issue with observers who mock the Bills for being historically inept in championship games, when in fact the Vikes are also 0-for-4 in the Super Bowl. That’s ridiculing that they deserve too. Damn your East Coast bias! That’s the last time they share their lutefisk with you.
New England Patriots
—You really like white players in skill positions. I mean, you
really
, really like them. But you’re also deeply respectful of the Patriots’ proud history, which extends all the way back to 2001, the year when most Patriots fans believe the franchise was founded. The sight of a prematurely purchased 19-0 shirt brings you to tears, as does any mention of David Tyree or Bernard Pollard.
New Orleans Saints—
Even years after Hurricane Katrina’s devastation, there’s little chance for you to return to your former home or rebuild your tattered life. But everything’s all
bon temps
because the Saints went to the playoffs that one year after they fixed the Superdome. And you got Reggie Bush! He’s quite possibly the best back ever to average three yards a carry.
New York Giants—
A curious dichotomy separates Giants fans. On one hand, there’s the parking-lot-dwelling, car-smashing Jersey contingent that seems to be the more representative of Giants fans in the eyes of the nation. On the other, there are self-obsessed,
moneyed Manhattanites who use football games as an opportunity to unleash their inner asshat, then return to their privileged lives in which they deride the Jersey fans for acting like animals. Nonetheless, Giants fans operate under the ridiculous notion that their fan base is somehow classier than that of the Jets, when they share not only the same stadium, but the same territory and many of the same annoying qualities. You do, however, know not to cram your gun into your sweatpants.
New York Jets
—You are either one of the guys goading women to flash their tits near Gate D at the Meadowlands, or you are one of the chesticle-flashing women themselves. There are no other types of Jets fans.
Oakland Raiders
—Your soul is the express property of Al Davis (those season ticket forms have some tricky legalese), and he may do with it what he pleases. And he pleases to hack away at it with a halberd, the one that he’s hung onto since his years ruling over Middle Earth. It’s not so bad—at least you get to wear some cool spiked shoulder pads.
Philadelphia Eagles
—Ever the environmentally conscious fans, Eagles fans have found a green-friendly way of disposing of used batteries: throwing them at opposing fans, opposing players, stadium concession workers, security officials, Santa Claus, Eagles players who perform badly, and Donovan McNabb regardless of performance. It’s important
because batteries are kept out of landfills (where they can leak mercury into the earth) when they’re lodged in someone’s cranium.
Pittsburgh Steelers
—People may not understand your need to carry soiled yellow towels and dance awkwardly to polka music, but then they know better than to cross the teeming horde that is Steelers Nation, a phenomenon which, because of flight from economic distress in Pittsburgh, exists in great numbers virtually everywhere on the planet. Steelers fans, when sober enough to be cognizant of their surroundings, drive cautiously around anyone riding a motorcycle, lest they cause further damage to their franchise quarterback. Known for their thunderous chants of “Here We, Steelers, Here We Go,” they can also be identified by their constant cursing of the foul day Steely McBeam flounced into being.
San Diego Chargers—
You miss the days when the Raiders were based in Los Angeles. Sure, it’s still a heated division rivalry, but it’s lost the added charge of proximity. Plus, back then you only needed to drive two hours home—instead of eleven—with a silver-and-black-handled switchblade stuck in your kidney.
San Francisco 49ers—
I made sure to double-check my Big Book of Regional Stereotypes, and being a denizen of San Francisco must mean you’re almost certainly gay. This makes ’80s nostalgia somewhat problematic for you. On the one hand, the 49ers were
in the midst of a dynasty. On the other hand, it was the height of the AIDS epidemic. I guess that makes it kind of a wash.
Seattle Seahawks
—The trusty moleskine pocket journal of the Seahawk fan holds the preciously written narrative of his inner tumult. Words like weltschmertz and anomie crop up a few dozen times. It is half-filled with frenzied, nonsensical tirades about Super Bowl XL, with the rest consisting mainly of recipes for vegan polenta and Sleater-Kinney lyrics. Even when they cheer, it sounds as though they’re crying.
St. Louis Rams
—You welcome any distraction during the months when baseball isn’t in season and you find hockey to be, well, hockey. You’d be much more inclined to pull for the Rams if only the NFL Shop would allow you to order a team jersey with Pujols on the back. And by that, I mean the Cardinal first baseman’s name and not actual poo holes. Those you must cut out yourself.
Tampa Bay Buccaneers
—Though the pewter uniforms have brought a reasonable degree of success, and even a Super Bowl title, you secretly long for the sherbet orange duds of yore. Sometimes, late at night, you envision a moonlit stroll on the beach with Bucco Bruce. Just make sure he removes the dagger from his teeth first. That thing is not the greatest bedroom accessory. That feathered hat, however, is another story. Tickles the balls in a most pleasing way. Uh, at least that’s what I hear.
Tennessee Titans
—You’re among the best in the league in mobile meth lab tailgating. Which would come in handy if you attended any Titans games. But that would interfere with a life spent entirely outside Neyland Stadium, whether or not the Vols are playing. A shame, because Kerry Collins would drink your whole tailgate under the table.
Washington Redskins
—As perennial Off-season Champs, the Redskins dominate the headlines between the months of March and August for their daring and, more often than not, extravagant free agent acquisitions. These free agents are typically of the faded decrepit sort. A recent history of this continually not working out for the best does not deter the Burgundy and Gold faithful from proclaiming that each of these signings (2009’s foolishly bloated new contract: Albert Haynesworth) signals a return to glory for the ’Skins. Those fans who don’t cheer on the emptying of Dan Snyder’s checkbook are sure to be mauled by Snyder lapdog Vinny Cerrato.
