Sensing the groundswell of new female fans, the NFL has tried to capitalize on the boom in several only marginally patronizing ways. A number of franchises hold football clinics for women to teach them the basics of the game, which is an asset for women whose boyfriends or husbands don’t like them enough to teach them things. Taking it a step further, in the summer of 2007, the Baltimore Ravens started a fan club specifically for women called Purple. The most prestigious members of Purple are known as the Lavender Ladies, which is something so mind-bendingly tacky it could only exist in Baltimore, or possibly Green Bay. Of course, much to the consternation of Ravens fans of any gender, the team with the highest percentage of women in its fan base is the rival Steelers, because apparently women can’t get enough of waving kitchen towels around.
That isn’t to say female fans don’t still struggle for acceptance. Some gripe that men are intimidated by women who unabashedly possess a profound understanding of and keen insight into the game, fearing that if a woman knows more than they do about football it somehow undermines their basic manhood. Well, yeah. Sure it does. But there’s a decided upside too. And that is that men need female fans. Why? Because any unhealthy fixation for men is suddenly made socially acceptable when women find it appealing.
IV.5. A GROUND RULES FOR FEMALE FANS
Don’t wear pink jerseys.—Ever. That the NFL sells them is an affront to your dignity. At best, they can be worn ironically by male fans as a means of mocking a player who is considered preening and fey. Someone, like, say, Tony Romo. But for women it’s a definite no-no.
Don’t be overbearing about your football acumen.—You know you know a lot about football, but you want everyone else to know it too, so you feel the need to force your expertise on other fans all the time. Women can’t be faulted for this insecurity, as it’s the result of pigheaded men who refuse to believe women know sports. Still, feeling the need to prove yourself at all times is unnecessary and grating. Say a guy questions how you could possibly understand a Cover 2 defense. Don’t waste your breath explaining how Tony Dungy’s version gets all the credit though it really originated with the Pittsburgh Steelers schemes in the 1970s, when you could just punch him in the dick. So much easier, so much more amusing.
Don’t adopt your boyfriend’s team.—I won’t be so rigid as to say you aren’t allowed to date—or even marry—outside your own fan base, but for God’s sake, don’t adopt the team of your new boyfriend. Don’t you have any self-respect? You’re your own person. To do so smacks of craven codependence.
Don’t say rival players are cute.—If you’re a fan of the Colts, it’s your duty to say you don’t find Tom Brady attractive, even if you do. If you’re not thoroughly disgusted by every player who’s not on your team, you’re liable to swap your baby for a cuter one in the nursery. You monster.
Use the language of the oppressor.—There’s no better way to take the power out of misogynistic language than by using it yourself. That’s called reclaiming, but it’s also called being funny. So go crazy! Call a guy a bitch. Tell opposing fans to suck your dick. See how empowering that is? Admit to the book that you’re turned on.
Don’t be surprised that even if you do everything right men will still shun you.—The fact remains, many male fans see football as a male-bonding time or at least a respite from women, especially the married ones. It is not wise to deny them this as it will only cause problems. This is why homes should have at least two HD screens. If Mr. Man needs his alone time with the pigskin, even if you like to watch, you can act like giving it to him is a big deal. That’s a great bargaining chip.
IV.6 Vow to Have a Football-Themed Wedding
Mazel tov! You actually found someone. Marty Schottenheimer wants to know how you closed the deal. It’s no easy feat. Most of fankind has trouble keeping the TV tuned to the same game for an entire quarter, let alone putting up with one person for decades at a time.
If you have come this far and she still doesn’t like football, you’re going to have to rethink this whole thing tout de suite. Single life isn’t so bad if it means unfettered access to the Sport of Sports. By the time you hit your mid-forties, you’ll be having as much sex as the married guys anyway. And there will be no one to stand in your way when you turn your one-bedroom apartment into a veritable team shrine, replete with game-worn player underwear obtained on the black market and nailed to your living room wall.
But if she can at least tolerate your lifestyle you might as well go through with marriage. And what better way to jump into this eternity than planning a football-themed wedding? Blowing it off and eloping in the Caribbean? Sure, but you can’t afford that.
First thing’s first, as first things often are. When is this big matrimonial mishap gonna go down? Planning it during the football season invites a clusterfuck of Raiderlike proportions. Good luck finding a weekend when everyone’s team is on its bye. With a seemingly limitless number of weekends to fill between mid-February and August, you’d be a fool not to go for the spring wedding. Plus you get a ceremony complemented by the enchanting efflorescence of the season, and everyone knows football fans really get off on that shit.
With the spring wedding date set, an outdoor event is definitely the call. In football, teams that play in a dome are always perceived as weak because they never are subjected to the elements. The same applies to people who get married indoors. The mettle of your relationship is not tested. The thing could fall apart by the first snowfall. That’s why you need an outdoor ceremony. (Sweeping generalizations borne out by limited history form the backbone of all football discourse, so let’s roll with it.)
The trappings should be obvious to any football fan: bride and groom enter through giant inflatable helmets, the guests sit on bleacher seats, the priest/minister/rabbi/officiant is decked out in a referee’s uniform, the bride comes out to “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne, or Zombie Nation, depending on whichever you find amps up the crowd more effectively.
Upon arriving, each guest should receive a jersey. Just like NFL rosters, the numbers should be assigned according to position. Anyone who arrives after exceeding the ninety-nine available spots will be placed on waivers and can be acquired by another reception.
1-2: Bride and groom
3-9: Parents, siblings, minister/rabbi/nondenominational referee
10-19: Close friends, mentors, the person no one likes who gets number 13
20-39: Extended family, local baker with whom you share a close relationship, running backs and defensive backs
40-49: College roommates, AA sponsors, ex-girlfriends/ex-boyfriends
50-59: Assorted single people, Joey Porter if he accepts your invitation
60-79: Coworkers, neighbors, Laotians, random people with interesting jobs
80-89: Wedding crashers, children born out of wedlock, cousin who “ain’t right in the head”
90-99: Catering staff, chef, bartender, the one fucker who just had to have 95 THANKS FOR BEING DIFFICULT, FRANK!
Once the guests have been seated on the home and visiting sides, the processional and opening words can commence:
Minister: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of Goddell and these witnesses to join number 1 and number 2 in matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all men; and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, and solemnly. And definitely not without an adequate supply of wings. Into this holy estate these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together, let them toss their red challenge flags before the next snap is taken.”
The bride and the groom will present the exchanging of vows.
Best Man: “ARE YOU FUCKING READY? THIS IS IT! RIGHT NOW, RIGHT HERE, WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU RATHER BE? LET’S DO THIS SHIT!”
Bride: “YEAH!”
Groom: “C’MON! LET’S GO! LET’S GO! IT’S OUR TIME!”
Bride: “NO ONE CAN TAKE THI
S FROM US! NO ONE CAN TAKE THIS FROM US!”
Groom: “LET’S TEAR THE ROOF OFF THIS BITCH!”
Bride: “I’M ABOUT TO RUN THROUGH A FUCKING BRICK WALL!”
Groom: “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Bride: “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Minister: “And now the presentation of the rings.”
Groom: “I give this ring as a symbol of OUR COMMITMENT, DAY IN AND DAY OUT, TO PLAY TOGETHER AS A UNIT, NEVER TO STRAY FROM THE AIMS OF THE WHOLE, AND TO PUT YOUR FUCKING GUTS ON THE LINE EVERY TIME YOU STEP OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING.”
Bride: “And, to you, I offer this ring as a symbol OF FUCKING SHUT UP FOR SIXTY MINUTES, TO NEVER HAVE AN OUNCE OF QUIT, TO BREATHE FIRE AND SHIT NAPALM FOR AS LONG AS WE CAN PUT ON THE MOTHERFUCKING PADS!”
Minister: “By the power vested in me by the American Football Conference, the National Football Conference, and the Office of the Commissioner of the National Football League, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may exchange flying shoulder-butts in a celebratory fashion, on three.”
IV.7 Raise Your Kids to Root for Your Team Through Coercion
In football, as in life, you need a game plan. Nowhere in that game plan should there be anything about getting a woman pregnant, in or out of wedlock. It’s not part of the scheme I’ve careful and meticulously laid out for you. I can offer you little in the way of advice on getting out of the mess you’re in. There are no audibles here, unless you know how to game a paternity test. If you do, there might actually be a future for you in the NFL, though not necessarily as a player. More likely as a “consultant.” Not able to scam the test? Then welcome to the suck. What you’re faced with is not all that different from a team trying to run out the clock when they’re down big and ready to cut their losses. Except instead of sixty minutes, you’re gonna need to run off sixty years. Sorry, no new life is coming next week. That said, there’s still no excuse to shed your parenting game face for your little bundle of wonderful. At least until it’s eighteen.
But if you’ve gone and done the deed, buck up, sulk monkey. Most of your favorite professional athletes have the same problem. Only they have money to pay someone else to raise the kid—or, as is more often the case, kids—for them. As a father, your job is not dissimilar from that of a coordinator to a domineering coach: stay out of the way, let your spouse make the big parenting decisions. That way you can reap the benefits when things go well and avoid the limelight when they don’t. Granted, a coordinator stands to gain a possible head coaching job of his own, while at best you avoid complete destitution and possible public humiliation. Again, life can’t be as enjoyable as football. That can’t be stressed enough.
If you need a player comparison, think of yourself as an impressive-looking but ultimately useless decoy, sort of like Reggie Bush, only you’re not banging Kim Kardashian. Though it’s possible you may already have.
Your primary objective for the next few years is to coax your child into adopting your favorite team. It’s the only shot you’ll have at developing any affection for the little soul sucker. To accomplish this goal, no means should be considered off-limits. Blackmail, psychological programming, idle threats, real threats, locking him or her in the towel closet for weeks at a time. Don’t consider yourself a parent. You’re officially an envoy working on behalf of the team. Any failure on your part will be the gain of a competing team. Then you’re only empowering the enemy, making yourself not only a weakness but a liability.
With the kid on your side, expensing those season tickets becomes significantly easier. Yes, you have loads of other expenses that go unaddressed, but you’re not being selfish by spending inordinate amounts of money on a needless hobby, you’re bringing a hint of joy to your child’s otherwise drab existence. Which makes you immune from spousal grief. And one day that child will grow up and become your designated driver. Or, if you push them obsessively enough, a crazed professional football player incapable of emotional connection. But one that will make you fabulously wealthy. That almost sounds like a plan.
IV.8 Acceptable Levels of Involvement in Your Kid’s Pop Warner League
Not having risen to achieve athletic stardom never caused you much distress. You knew you had neither the skill, the determination, nor the freakish genetics necessary to make a push at a pro career. Sure, you dabbled with high school ball a little, but it wasn’t much more than an attempt to appease your blowhard of a father, who demanded you strive for the heights that he himself could never reach. That, and if you didn’t join the team there was more than a fair chance you wouldn’t have gotten laid until midway through college. Girls aside, you vowed never to be like the overbearing father figure who forced that grueling game upon you. You were going to be a cool parent who allowed his kids to make their own decisions and host parties and smoke cigarettes and even join the goddamn forensics team if that’s what they wanted.
But that was until you had a son of your own and that open mindedness went the way of your hairline and youthful whimsy. Now you stare at that amorphous blob of afterbirth and wonder if he will ever amount to anything more than an Xbox savant who weighs three hundred pounds at age fourteen. That little shit can bring you a reflected form of the gridiron glory you never got on your own. Did you see the way he leveled that kid at daycare? He’s the next Justin Tuck.
The warning signs of the pushy sports dad are obvious. Leave them unchecked and soon you’ll be the next Marv Marinovich, the former NFL player whose hard-line parenting tactics raised a failed robotic first-round pick quarterback of a son. Marv went as far as having a football in Todd’s crib from the day he was born and having him teething on a frozen kidney.
Maybe you won’t be so extreme. Still, you must exercise restraint. Do you find yourself forcing a macrobiotic diet on the kid once he gets off the bottle? “Candy only gets him off his regimen of pain!” Step the fuck off, buddy. What you think is instilling an early sense of discipline is only building resentment of you. With those tactics, you have a better chance of turning the tyke into a serial killer than a football player. And Dexter’s dad already made the blueprint for that.
What if the kid decides to play of his own accord? Don’t take this as a sign to go batshit crazy and run wild with your obsession. Stick with restraint. Act like this is just another passing interest he’s chosen to take up before shucking it all off in favor of heavy narcotics. Your job is to show up at the games, voice support when appropriate, and otherwise keep your fucking yap shut. And for crap’s sake, don’t try to coach the team or give the coach advice about getting your kid into the game.
Your children will find myriad ways to disappoint you that have nothing to do with sports. Leave it to them to decide what those towering embarrassments will be. Given some space, there’s less chance they’ll freak out and become members of the American Taliban pushed into domestic terrorism because they were forced to pore over playbooks instead of watching cartoons like a normal seven-year-old.
And, hey, if you strike the offspring lottery and your kid does wind up an NFL superstar, you’re going to get credit whether you compulsively impelled them toward it or not. So sit back and roll the die. At least that way you can spend more time boozing.
IV.9 Scenes from a Broken Fan Marriage
You really think you know somebody. Years of Sundays spent together glued to the couch in matching Elway jerseys watching the Broncos do battle. She’d even wear the white horsehair wig to complete the look. It one was of the few moments of honest kinship you ever felt with another person. Two souls, joined forever in marriage and fandom. And afterward joined again for some postgame play. It was a beautiful thing.
Wasn’t it just a few months ago that you got her a new authentic Kyle Orton jersey for her birthday? It was a message to her that, in addition to being the foundation of your past, she represented the reality of the present and the promise of the future. The mother of your children, the source of all ardor, the chick who didn’t mind when you ralphed in her hair
when you first met. It was a gesture pregnant with symbolism. It was a present that cost three hundred goddamn dollars.
Of course, she took it to mean that you thought she, like Orton, had a neckbeard.
Bitch.
It was then you should have figured it out, but you remained willfully blinkered to the truth, to her conniving nature. The morning your buddy Nick took you aside and said he had spotted the wife in a Darren McFadden jersey in a bar with another Raiders fan, you refused to believe it. You even lashed out at Nick, saying that was a vicious canard that only a Cowboys fan could spread. What a fool you were. He was only looking out for you.
You wouldn’t even address the allegations. You didn’t ask her. Then she came to you and said she had to go out of town the weekend of the Broncos-Raiders game in Denver to attend the wedding of one of her work friends. Since when would she put anything above a rivalry game? Fishy as it was, you let it go.
But then you noticed she didn’t pack any of her Broncos jerseys for the trip. Surely, even at a wedding, she could slip out come kickoff and find a place to get rowdy and watch the game. There were no two ways about that with her.
When she got back from the trip, you asked about the jerseys, trying not to sound too leery. She laughed it off as a freak mental lapse, maybe in a little too facile a manner. Shouldn’t she be more frustrated about that? The woman you’d always known, always loved, would have been. That more than anything piqued your suspicions.
It wasn’t many weeks or many more attempts at subterfuge before you finally cottoned onto her game. The tips from friends became more frequent, more detailed, more embarrassing. She became more brazen about it, not even bothering to say why she was heading out on gamedays.
The Football Fan's Manifesto Page 8
