Football

My whole life, my parents really wanted me to like football. For a period when I was about seven, I felt extreme pressure to choose a preferred team. I made what seemed to be the logical choice: I lived in North Carolina, so I selected the Panthers. I didn't understand football in the slightest, never watched the games, but for almost entire year's worth of Sundays, I would be dressed in Panther garb and adults would endlessly spout the Panther's score to my uncomprehending and apathetic ears.

As time passed and my true feelings about football became apparent, the Panther-mania gave way to just the occasional comment by the distant behind-the-times relative. I'm now very glad I didn't stick with the Panthers, as they are a horrible team to be fan of these days.

It isn't much of a wonder that I didn't grow up liking football. I've written about previously about mom's football insanity, which didn't paint a blissful picture of an American pastime. I regarded the behavior as insane, not something I'd ever want to participate in. I guess I ignored my dad's rational football viewing--he would simply watch the games with interest, root for his favorite team, be a little sad if they lost, and then move on with his life in a timely manner. But the crazies always get the attention.

This all changed through a couple of random events. The first didn't have much to do with football. One evening, I was passing through the living room and saw my parents utterly transfixed by something on the television. They were watching the Celtics and the Lakers in the NBA finals, and it was a close game. They've always been big Celtics fans, so they were pretty (but reasonably) into the game.

Out of boredom and intrigue, I sat down and watched the rest of the game with them. It was almost fun--the drama and intensity of the game was appealing, and I have a decent understanding of the game from having played youth league basketball, so I could watch with a degree of intelligence. I ended up watching the rest of the exciting seven-game series, and even though the Celtics lost to the Lakers in game seven, it was a pretty fun experience. I even found myself looking forward to the next games, which was something I'd never before experienced about a sport event, short of the Olympics and maybe the Sunday round of the Master's.

The second event was a pretend stint as a sports writer at the local newspaper. The boss guy ended up being an incompetent jerk, and I never actually performed the job, but when I thought I was going to have to attend and report upon a lot of football games, I tried to learn the game. My gleeful parents taught me all about first downs, pass rushes, and sacks. I watched a few games to test my knowledge. I've always been decent at retaining information, and soon possessed a fairly decent working knowledge of football.

Another fateful evening, I found myself bored. It happened to be the first regular season game of my dad's favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts. I sat down with them to watch, and ended up absorbing every second. It turns out football isn't so bad when you understand it.

I then watched every single Colts game, up until their first round playoffs loss to the New York Jets on Saturday. I was actually sad, for both their loss and the end of my extended interest in the NFL season.

My parents couldn't be more proud. They bought me a personalized Colts jersey, which I actually find pretty awesome; they explain the nuances of the game, and are super thrilled when I site some article I read online about analyzing the Colts' running game or recent injury report. I could win the Nobel Peace Prize while studying at Cambridge University to become a neurosurgeon, and they would still remember the day I watched my first full football game with them as their proudest day.

I still occasionally get weird reactions from people who knew me before I cared about screen passes and pylons, but I now entertain some weird attraction to the game. It really doesn't make sense to emotionally invested in something where you have no real connection the people involved and the outcome is virtually irrelevant to life in any meaningful way. And yet millions of people watch it, cry over it, rejoice over it every week.

I guess the attraction is a very base human appeal: rooting for a team gives you something to be apart of, something bigger than yourself. Wanting the same team to win gives two people a kind of unique camaraderie that is not easily replicated elsewhere. Identifying yourself with a solidified group--Jets fans, Colts fans, Steelers fans--that is cut and dried is a very rare thing. You may subscribe to a political party, but there is so much variance within that you might not have anything real in common with the other members at all. You can attend the same schools or work in the same business, but still be miles apart. But if you both are diehard Cowboys fans, well that's something you can bond over.

So maybe that's why my parents were so glad that I took an interest in the game they hold so dear. It's not about the football players or the score in the end. It's about the people you celebrate wins or mourn losses with.