I felt the familiar vibration against my thigh. My
head was tilted slightly skyward and my eyes glued to the screen.
My hand gently, automatically reached into my pocket and fished out my
weathered, but diehard flip phone. Without a glance, my thumb popped up the
screen half; muscle memory from thousands upon thousands of short messages
received and sent. I only needed a split second and slight twitch of neck
muscles to quickly read the text and return my focus to the task at hand.
The content of the message made me pause however in spite of myself. It
read, “Who is this?” I chuckled and closed the phone. Glancing
around, soaking up the environs and scratching my head curiously. Who was
I? My initial outgoing message, the one that yielded such an appropriate
response, was addressed to my wife and read, “Be home later. At a bar
watching football.”
This important question, asked now more than three years
past, still remains. Who was I and how the fuck did this happen?
How did it come to pass that I started watching football again? Even now
as I type this in New Jersey, I am excitedly anticipating the throngs that will
descend upon the region over the next four days. The ensuing chaos
reaching its apex and then sharply departing on the Sunday of Sundays –
Superbowl Sunday. May my father breathe a sigh of relief; this aging punk
is a football fan…again.
What was once a dirty, little secret amongst the punks is
now bared for all. These are the days where one can discuss the Giants
offense with members of a crusty anarchist band. Providing opinions on
new 7”s; providing opinions on Monday night’s officiating. A bunch of punks
gambling on the playoffs – sure, why not! It wasn’t always this way…
I lived the first handful of my years in San Francisco and
the only team I can remember my dad rooting for was the 49ers. Naturally,
I became a fan as well. You know, it wasn’t a tall order. This was
when Joe Montana was ripping passes downfield into the hands of Jerry
Rice. This was last second Superbowl wins against the Bengals (XXIII) and
embarrassing the Broncos (XXIV). I could give a fuck about any other
team. I lived in Atlanta at the time, and I only wanted to watch the
‘9ers destroy my hometown. I jumped on to the field at game’s end in order
to shake Roger Craig’s hand. Montana bracketed by police, vanished down
to the locker room.
As a matter of course, I put on some shoulder pads and a
helmet and (oof) a cup and started playing football myself. Backyard ball
was done; association was in. This was a regimented, sweaty, military
experience, but with cheerleaders. By the time high school rolled around
I was seemingly in it to win it (but possibly in over my head). I didn’t
enjoy exercising to country music. I didn’t enjoy hearing the Metallica
black album day-in, day-out in the weight room either. Fuckin’ Coach Kin
atonally yowling “Ex-errr-cise” at the top of his lungs instead of “Exit light”
during Enter Sandman. That asshole also called Kurt Cobain a loser.
Ever want to lose the respect and attention of a bunch of high school kids in
the 90s? Call Kurt Cobain a loser and see what happens. I also
blame Coach Kin for a permanent knee injury, but that’s another story.
Rumor has it he built his own log cabin. Whatta guy! Rumor also has it he
video-taped the freshman girls during aerobics and lost his job. As
usual, I digress…
No, I didn’t want to listen to country music or anything
post-And Justice For All. I wanted to go downtown and see 7
Seconds. I wanted to ride around with my skater friends and listen to
Minor Threat. I wanted to sit in my room with a dictionary on my knee and
attempt to understand Bad Religion lyrics. I didn’t want to hear racist
jokes or just dumb jokes for that matter. One of my fellow players used
to inexplicably taunt me with “Ken, Ken he fucked hen” each afternoon on the
practice field. I wasn’t down with the “macho bullshit attitude.” A
divide appeared. Who I was and who I wasn’t became clear.
Clear as mud.
For all intents and purposes, my father bribed me to finish
out senior year football. Hey – my band needed a PA! But by the
time I limped off the field for that final time, I wasn’t even paying attention
to the ‘9ers. When Steve Young ran rings around the Chargers in the Super Bowl
(XXIX), I was at a show. I didn’t even know it was the big day. I
seriously didn’t care and felt it represented aspects of my culture and my
gender that didn’t jive with me one bit. I was taking the moral high
ground. I asserted this during those last games by putting X’s on my
hands. My teammates thought I was a fuckin’ nut.
And for all of my moralizing, I couldn’t find any irony in
moshing my friend’s face with a bunch of other sweaty males when the power
chords hit. Digging 10 Yard Fight? Nah, no contradiction
there. We looked upon our scene’s fellow show-goers with the utmost
contempt when they skipped Sunday matinees for Sunday football. With a
great scowl curling across our faces, “how dare they prefer a warm living room
with snacks and entertaining TV on a cold November afternoon to paying money to
stand in a dirty, unheated basement in a shady part of town, while watching
five bands flop around!"
A van-load of us made the cold journey north from Jersey
to Boston after the Tear It Up record release show in early 2002. I was
aware that this raw Sunday night featured a Super Bowl (XXXVI) in some warm
locale. It was impossible to be unaware since New England was
playing. My fellow travelers had the game on and when the Pats kicked
that last second field goal to seal the deal, they went ballistic.
Relatively speaking. When we rolled in to downtown Beantown at 1:00 in
the morning, we witnessed the true aftermath of an entire city losing its
collective shit. Bob Goldthwait once remarked, “if your team wins the
Super Bowl, you can legally do anything you want.” Nail on the
head. Nary a trash can or newspaper box was left unturned. Anything
not bolted down occupied the street. The flotsam of chaos abounded. Any
group of strangers on a corner could be sent cheering towards our van by
throaty shouts of “Pats!” But it became eerily quiet as we made it to
Boylston St; just the sight of a lone man marching down the middle of the road
parading a life-sized cut-out of Brittney Spears. A man and his date
going home to celebrate the Pats’ big win.
Fair to say that something changed or a switch flipped or
whatever, in my very late 20s. I began to keep my ear to the
ground. Passively paying attention to wins and losses. In 2005, while
living in Colorado, the Broncos entered the playoffs and I sat on my ass and
watched two games. And enjoyed them. From that point on it seemed
like harmless fun to watch the Super Bowl each year. After all, the
commercials were funny and hey, from my past life as a fan, I knew the game and
could talk it socially. Dangerous rationalizations. The Super Bowl
acted as a gateway drug to a renaissance in my mid-30s, but sticking with the
metaphor, it was an addiction.
So we’re back to that game at the bar. Jets -
Steelers in the snow. How could that not be an exciting watch? And
since the Jets won, might as well see how they do in the playoffs. Oh damn,
the Steelers beat them that time. Well better luck next year, guess I’ll
go ahead and see how next season fares. And oh boy the ‘9ers look hot again.
Not hard to just starting pulling for them. After all, it’s my
birthright. And so on and so on until my wife wants any given Sunday to
not feature men commenting on other men running into each other with impressive
velocity and force.
Finally, there I was in NYC last night, freezing my balls
off in sub-arctic temperatures to have my picture taken with…a trophy. My
companion and I kept the conversation upbeat despite the rapid sensory decline
in all extremities; until our facial muscles could no longer form intelligible
lexis. As hypothermia set in and we gradually slipped into
unconsciousness and then death, our turn came and we entered a heated room
where ol’ Vince awaited us in a glass case, shining bright. Years of
fanatic dedication, moral quandaries notwithstanding, rewarded with five
seconds to admire football’s most enduring symbol set in silver. A quick
photo - and god, I hope I didn’t blink - as equal proof of my insanity and
nerdiness and the ridiculousness of all this. That is who I am.
