Fandom in Massachusetts

Super Bowl VVVVVVVVVIIIIX is this weekend, and it's a weird one for me. As I've documented in the blog and by word of mouth, I've questioned my allegiance to the Washington Redskins and their mostly-reprehensible football organization. After moving to Massachusetts this past summer I was even more curious how regional ties and home-team coverage would affect me. I was able to watch 6 (or so) 'Skins games this season. They're still bad. I'm used to that. This season however, there was a tinge of scrappy youth that timidly emerged at points, peaking with Roy Helu's undersized explosiveness towards the end of the season. To my wife's dismay I'm still a fan.

The thing is, I also watched most of the Pats games on tv. They're cool. Most importantly: their owner is a mensch, not a slimeball; Belichick is brilliant; Tom Brady. A Redskin fan is so acclimated to sub-mediocre quarterbacking and coaching, that Brady/Belichick is shocking to watch on a regular basis. More than shocking, its enjoyable.

So what about this Super Bowl. I still feel more New York than New England, but as a Skins fan the Giants are enemies. Becky has insisted that the Super Bowl has never been as hyped and ubiquitously reported as it is this year. At our new jobs our coworkers show their Pats spirit to a degree we never saw in New York. Women! Women are bonkers for the Pats here, and it's not just because of Tom Brady's face. So, Becky is rooting for the G-men. I'm rooting for the Pats. But if they lose and I see pictures of New Yorkers partying in the streets, I'll probably get a little homesick. At least there's the Mets. Yipes.

I'VE ABANDONED MY TEAM! I'VE ABANDONED THE SKINS!

Well, not just yet. But I've thought this through enough that I'm not sure I can turn back. The Washington Redskins are not the Washington Redskins for me anymore. So I don't get lost in the frustration and disappointment, I'll be brief. The only reason for me to like this team is that I've rooted for them since I was 7. That's a good reason. But here's why I don't like this team. The owner. And it's not that I merely think he's a jerk, because that I could weather. He's a meddling, corrosive, narcissistic jerk. He's turned a perennially classy team into a perennially underachieving squad of overpaid mercenaries, with a revolving door policy on both coach and quarterback. It's absolutely dreadful to watch and in no way reflects what I would like in the team I root for.

So can a guy make the switch? I'm not sure. On one hand, maybe I'm supposed to just grit my teeth and stay loyal to the burgundy and gold laundry I'm so accustomed to. Of course, Dan Sn*der could be the owner for the next two or three decades, dampening my enthusiasm for the sport and making me embarrassed of my choice all the while. I'm not sure if logic or emotion are even allowed into this argument. I know a lot of dudes would say that your team is your team for life. But doesn't that involve a large degree of mindless obedience?

I'll have to continue with my escape plans and alternatives in my next post...

Gods and Chili

This past weekend I hosted my fourth Super Bowl Chili Hoohah. It went over pretty well, and I think the chili was my most successful yet, with a marked improvement in the texture of the veggie version. But let me just cut to the chase here: I want to be Larry Fitzgerald, just briefly. When asked what the greatest day of their life has been, most people say the birth of my first child. Caveat to Larry's first: don't be surprised if you get nudged out the top spot, because your dad made an immortal play in the Super Bowl, and unless you emerge singing complete Verdi arias, that play is his best day. Maybe it was the camera angle, maybe it was the crowd's roar - I don't think I've ever seen a person run that fast. When you're a kid playing football with friends, I think the standard for imitating a cool touchdown catch is the Santonio Holmes tiptoe-dragging layout, but now I know that's because when you're 12, you can't say "watch this!" and then accelerate to residential speed limits with your legs! I — lanky, slow and timid — am not good at sports. I've created a nice life for myself wherein senses of confidence and accomplishment are derived from other sources, but my goodness: I want to know what it feels like to make that play. I've watched it about twenty times now, and I think the appeal is how simple it looks. A quick post, hit in stride and he runs untouched. He's momentarily transcendent. And when he pulls up in the endzone and raises his arms, it looks like no piece of the moment escaped him - he knows what just happened - he's man again.