“Overpursue”
How It Is Used: A defender who too aggressively goes after a running back, ignoring the possibility that the ball carrier could cut back and go in another direction, thus burning the defense for a huge gain.
Use Outside of Football: It would make sense to apply this term to someone who pursues a perspective mate with reckless abandon. But then stalkers would lose their preferred verb, and they’re not people you want to screw with.
“Impose your will”
How It Is Used: To be able to do what you want despite direct resistance from other parties. An offense will be said to be imposing its will on the defense when it is moving the ball easily even in the face of a well-prepared adversary.
Use Outside of Football: Surely there are a number of occasions in life when one person is able to exert considerable force over another in getting them to do what they want. Lawful occasions, preferably.
“You play to win the game!”
How It Is Used: Nothing less than a mission statement of life; once a mantra used by Herman Edwards to chew out a reporter at a postgame press conference.
Use Outside of Football: In football, as in life, you always want to finish at the top. If you’re not winnin’, you’re dyin’! It’s important to remind people of that every once in a while. A belligerent tone and a wild-eyed expression works best.
“It looks like he’s just having fun out there”
How It Is Used: A cloying observation in regard to the seemingly whimsical play of quarterback Brett Favre.
Whether it’s throwing a pick-six off his back foot or tossing the ball across the field into the welcoming chest of a linebacker playing zone coverage, announcers and analysts are enamored with the play of Brett Favre—so much so that they love to describe his every mannerism on the football field as positively childlike. While some other players have had this remark applied to them by the announcigensia, it is typically reserved for Favre. And it’s grating as all hell.
Use Outside of Football: Now, you ask, how can I employ this very specific phrase to my own life? The answer is that you cannot. It is strictly verboten, on penalty of having your balls placed on Rob Bironas’s kicking tee. It’s the only way you’ll learn.
IX.8 Get Tat Up from the Mat Up
Getting tatted up, it’s not just for biker gangs, inmates, Marines, and coked-out songstresses anymore. Sports fans have embraced the art of the tattoo in all its eventually regrettable majesty. It’s not a stretch to state that the majority of those who suit up on Sundays have some ink on them. But, unlike in the NBA, where old ladies sitting courtside can read off Delonte West’s legs as he’s throwing the ball in, football players’ bodies are better concealed, meaning the only tattoos that fans are usually aware of are the arm tat, the neck tat, and the occasional Night of the Hunter–esque knuckle tat. That is, until you catch the player on a blog boozing it up shirtless with two young coeds. You’ll be shocked to discover that T-Sizzle looks better in Ole English than you thought.
Among the more well-known tattoos in the NFL are those belonging to Jeremy Shockey (an eagle wrapped in the American flag appears on his right arm), JaMarcus Russell (the words “The Chosen One” are inked on his left arm; presumably “The Underthrowing One” is written on his right), Shawne Merriman (his right forearm bears a light switch in the off position, to signify his “Lights Out” nickname and as a reminder to only inject steroids under the cover of darkness), Kellen Winslow Jr. (a Frederick Douglass quote is inscribed on his left forearm, which no doubt fires up his fellow soldiers), Ray Lewis (has a panther on his right arm, for they prey on witnesses), and Laurence Maroney (has a tattoo of the Kool-Aid guy, which enables him to burst through walls unscathed. If only the same applied to a defense’s front seven).
As a fan, there’s no reason why you should confine your visual expressions of undying worship to mere trinkets, articles of clothing, and car decals of Calvin pissing on thine enemies. The fan tattoo says a lot of positive things about you, chief among them your commitment and willingness to take pain for your team, both very critical come bar fight time. Believe it or not, the tats serve a pragmatic purpose as well. What would happen if you found yourself waking up naked in the streets without them? Chuckle if you will, but for a football fan, this is hardly a seldom occurrence. How then would freaked-out bystanders know which is your team?
Some may be deterred from getting a fan tattoo for any number of reasons, cop-outs, or bouts of penile inversion. Fear and indecision are the usual excuses. Pay them no mind. Those words are not in the football fan’s lexicon. If there’s an impulsive and potentially harmful act you could be committing, you’re duty-bound to do it.
Supposing it’s the day job that poses a problem, it may mean you’re in need of a new line of work. Or that you need to dig in your high heels, Nancy. If the boss is thinking there’s a conflict between your neck tattoo depicting a buccaneer garroting a saint and your job running a daycare service, let him know that if your rights as a fan are to be impinged upon, you can have a crowd of sixty Bucs fanatics out front within the hour. No way they’ll risk it.
On the whole, fan tattoos differ from those of players in several noteworthy ways: they don’t scare anybody, and they have a unhealthy store of flab undergirding them. Their purpose is to reflect the team’s glory, not to promote the individual’s. The athlete, through body art, is trying to tell his own story, and you’re turning that story into Ron Howard–like hagiography. The athlete tats also have more room for idiosyncrasies, as with LaMarr Woodley’s large Woody Woodpecker image on his left bicep, while the menu of fan options is narrower, but not without character. For example, if you got a Woody tattoo, that bird better have the team’s helmet on it and it better be pecking the shit out some treelike representation of your rival.
Collage of Greats—Ever dreamt of being a living, breathing, pantheon of greatness for your franchise? Now’s your chance. Lionize the great players and the achievements of the team with stoic-looking portraits of players coupled with title banners, Lombardi trophies, whatever. The crux here is that you’re forced to plan for the future. While acknowledging the titans and titles of the past (if applicable), you must leave real estate vacant for future Super Bowl insignias. If you leave too little space, are you selling your team short? If you leave too much, are you setting yourself up for disappointment? If you’re a Browns fan, you’re liberated from this worry.
Boring Old Team Logo—Clear the way, everybody—here comes Thrilly McPushingtheenvelope! Way to be daring. Yeah, everybody loves to prostrate themselves before the graven idol of team imagery, but true fandom behooves at least a semblance of effort.
Caricaturized Scary Version of Team Mascot—That’s a little more like it. Have that big intimidating cardinal on your back looking all jacked up and blowing alarming amounts of smoke out of its beak. Given a deft artistic touch, even the most seemingly benign team mascot has the potential to rattle. Doubtful of the potential of the 49ers’ grizzled old prospector to look imposing? Careful, he can swing that pickax awful hard! Or blind you with his daily ration of flour!
Autograph Tattoos—One newish trend in fan tattoos involves getting an autograph from a player, taking that ’graph to a tattoo artist, and having a replica of that signature writ large on your body. It’s almost as if the player branded you like livestock. Which is actually kind of a good look if you’re one of the Hogettes.
Copying Players’ Tats—As the axiom goes, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. It’s also the first warning sign of stalking. Even more worrisome is the tendency to allow the blinding passion of fandom to obscure the discerning eye of good taste (already not a strong suit among football fans).
The Date Your Team Was Founded—Usually reserved for the followers of longstanding franchises, such as the Bears, Packers, Giants, Steelers, Browns, Lions, or Redskins, fans of more contemporary teams can tout that they’ve been around since the very beginning. For the Texans fan, that means cel
ebrating the year of both the founding of their team and the creation of Friendster. Fitting, considering they’ve both been rendered irrelevant in but a few short years.
Area Code Tattoo—An en vogue method of showing hometown pride and a way of proving to the haters that your community has phone service. The problem is, unless you live in one of the three or four most populous cities, no one has a clue what part of the country it stands for. For example, Darren McFadden has the number 501 tattooed on his right bicep, which most believe is the area code assigned to a pair of his Levi’s. So when he says he’s got hoes in that area code, he ain’t kidding.
Some Supposedly Cool-looking Foreign Bullshit—When all else fails, pick out something flashy and exotic. Dumb people love garish shit that makes no sense, which explains the continued career of McG. Scores of athletes have Maori tattoos they don’t understand. Dolphins defensive end Matt Roth, not to take a challenge lying down, takes cultural misappropriation to a new level. Roth has the Chinese characters tattooed on his right arm, which he claims means his last name, but actually translates to “a painful noise rushes at authority.”
ARTICLE X
Death: Because Only Al Davis Can Live Forever
X.1 Retirement, or “Which Team Do I Like, Again?”
Glorioski! Prolonging insanity long enough to reach retirement is no gimme achievement. Familial and work-place stressors work in tandem to grind every last shred of life force out of the tired bodylike husk you become by your fifties. To make it this far, you must have found your niche in the world, maybe even landed your dream job, unless that was playing in the NFL, in which case you almost certainly expired before the age of sixty-five.
Now that you’ve made it to your golden years, whiling away the remainder of your days focusing on what truly matters becomes a heavenly reality. One that is tempered by the rapid loss on your mental faculties. Surely by now that team has managed to secure at least one title for you. If so, a good chunk of your life has been spent basking in those glorious moments. With your mind swiftly deteriorating, you can safely block out the bad, while keeping the broken record of highlights from the good times rolling. Perhaps even embellishing them a tad. You were, after all, having a threesome with two Japanese gravure idols when David Tyree made his helmet catch, right?
Time passes more quickly when you have little idea what is going on. That’s why Joe Gibbs’s second stint with the Redskins felt to him like a half hour. That’s detrimental for maintaining a normal social life, but that was never really a priority for you anyway. This way, though, off-seasons will pass like commercial breaks. March will melt into August like so much cheese on Taco Bell’s latest fully loaded heart-attack special. Before you know it, the regular season has rolled around again.
Better yet, free time and disposable income means complete devotion can be paid to your favorite team during the season. While other suckers, smug with full control of their bowels, must squander time carrying out a fully rounded life, you’re free to be as single-minded as you wish. What better way do you have to spend your time? Crocheting bath mats? Rewriting your will? Detaching and reattaching your colostomy bag? Surely you can do better.
For starters, securing a routine for the season needs to move to the top of your bucket list, right after punching anyone who has actually compiled a bucket list. Your kids are grown, your responsibilities are gone. If you haven’t made your way through the waiting list for season tickets by the time you’ve reached dotage, you’ve erred in life. Did you buy a boat? Bother to send your kids to college? If those freeloaders can’t ball well enough to get a scholarship, you’d best cast them by the wayside before they become a further drain on your resources.
Tune the family out. Finesse that senility with signs of lucidity, or chances are you’ll be stuck in a home. Bear in mind that retirement homes, in addition to being brutal houses of death, don’t have NFL Sunday Ticket, much less liquor outside the administrator’s office. Any football discussion will be limited to nurses using football metaphors to get you to swallow pills. Do show at least enough coherence to remember family members’ names, maybe even a birthday or two. Try to combine your interests by letting them know you’re aware of which team they like, preferably by insulting that team. If you’ve succeeded in making them all follow the same team as you, demonstrate your cognizance by occasionally saying something derogatory about a rival team. If that comment is met with an attempt to make a high five, do your best to make contact. They won’t expect more than a timid effort on your part, so at least give them that much.
Failing that, at least keep your jersey on at all times. Your family can’t possibly put someone away with his game face on.
X.2 Your Team Relocated to Another City! Your Entire Life Was All For Naught!
Fans maintain a love-hate relationship with their team’s ownership—in turns irritated by personnel moves and escalating ticket, parking, and concession prices—but in the end they somehow remain fiercely loyal to the miserly, unfeeling tycoon running the show. Love is an easily exploitable emotion like that.
But what happens when an owner pulls the rug out from under their fans by moving the team to another city? As those wronged by Robert Irsay, Art Modell, and Bud Adams can attest, a violent sense of betrayal capped by a bloodlust worthy of Patrick Bateman. And why not? This is the destruction of people’s livelihoods on a massive scale, usually for no other reason than a city not relenting on the owner’s demands for unnecessary new digs filled with luxury suites and cushy escape pods in the untimely event of a proletariat uprising.
Though franchises in large markets such as New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia are immune to this sort of exodus, it seems every other year at least one team is rumored to be on the move. Whenever this happens, Los Angeles is usually at or near the top of the list of likely destinations, in spite of the overwhelming evidence that L.A. is a horrible pro football town. Sure, L.A. has some great college and high school teams, but it also has a track record of two failed NFL franchises, coupled with no reason to believe one would work there now. Los Angeles remains a glorious mirage to the football owner, perhaps because of the City of Angels’ large population, its prestige, or its fans’ habits of showing up right before halftime and leaving midway through the fourth quarter. It’s the ever-present holy grail for the disgruntled owner in search of new revenue, whereas somehow Las Vegas, one of the largest growing markets in the country, with its wondrous legalized gambling, merits only the occasional murmur.
A strange quirk of fandom is that it is inextricably linked to the city where the team is based. If a team skips town, it doesn’t take its fans with it, no matter how die-hard. In the era of free agency, where player turnover can overhaul a roster within the span of a few years, a team’s location is the only constant. Even if you didn’t grow up in the town where your team is based, so much of that team’s identity is anchored in that city. An essential component of trash-talk among fans is bashing the city a team calls home. Through years of defending the team in these verbal battles, you’ve learned to embrace the character of that town as a means of backing the team.
So when the team moves, it loses the soul that underpins it, even if it keeps the same name and uniforms. Can anyone honestly say the Indianapolis Colts evoke the same set of images that the Baltimore Colts do? Of course not. The only way the modern Colts could seem whiter is if they played in Utah.
Protect your precious history. Petition the league to negate all the history from the relocated franchise prior to departing. The organization’s title tally should go back to zero. Any Hall of Famers belong to the old hometown. Art Modell, scumbag though he is, left the team Cleveland Browns’ history and name in Cleveland when leaving after the 1995 season. The Colts and Titans weren’t kind enough to do the same for Baltimore and Houston when they skipped town. Considering the history of the Oilers up to that point, it may have been for the best.
Abandon fandom altogether. This is an understandable, if harrowing o
ption. The pain of losing a team can open your eyes to the ruthless business-driven underbelly of the league, and you just won’t be able to look at football the same way again. The remainder of your days can be spent constructively plotting the “accidental” death of the owner who jilted your town. If I could recommend a method, I think sarin gas is woefully underutilized in matters of petty vengeance, but that’s just me.
Adopt your former rivals. After the Browns left Cleveland for Baltimore following the 1995 season, many Browns fans jumped ship to join the Steelers’ fan base, if only for a few years. Judge them harshly if you will. It seems like heresy until you’re put in that position. Some folks just can’t go on without football, and while taking on the torch of a team that is merely good smacks of bandwagon jumping, the rival is at least a familiar figure. After all, the closest emotion to hatred is love. And everyone loves a good hate fuck.
Stick with the franchise. Ah, the sports version of Stockholm syndrome, where victimized fans dutifully stick with the franchise even after being played for saps. These weak-kneed individuals have been cuckolded by another city, yet pine for their former team from afar. It’s as though your wife runs off with another man and you respond by spending your days masturbating to her image. C’mon, dude, have some self-respect.
What, then, are we to make of fans who reap the benefits of a relocated team? What amount of culpability do they share for pulling for an ill-gotten franchise? Have they no empathy? To aid and abet a moneygrubbing owner, they become accomplices in the high crime of team larceny. And what of the case of Ravens fans, who bitched endlessly about having the Colts leave town in the middle of the night in 1984 only to accept another team with open arms after it screwed over another city? What good is it to sacrifice your soul if all you get in return is the Ravens?
The Football Fan's Manifesto Page 21
