Football: God’s Game.
August 12, 2003
by Bernard Chapin
I’m
the type of hairpin who has little problem offending people, so I’ll
continue in my proud, irritant, tradition by stating that American
football is the greatest and noblest game on God’s beautiful earth.
Now, I don’t mean to insult soccer or baseball or basketball (and
certainly not hockey), but I truly believe that few human endeavors
have proved more fortuitous or glorious than the commencement of organized
football in 1869.
For this reason, ABC is misguided when it starts off their broadcast of “Monday Night Football,” with the musical question, “are you ready for some football?” The question should be, “when aren’t you ready for some football?”
Some say the season lasts too long, but, in comparison to FIFA’s soccer season, the season is merely a brief blip on the calendar. The length is just right. To corrupt the words from a song about Alabama: “Now the 17 week season does not bother me, does your conscience bother you?”
This all came to mind over the weekend when I received a solicitation from Direct TV to buy the complete season package. This package would allow me to see all the games that are played on any given Sunday. My hand quivered as I looked at the flyer. For most NFL fans it really is superfluous as they can see their own teams on network television every week. I do not have that option though, as my team is from Detroit and I live in Chicago. My residence only guarantees two televised Lions games each year, and that is, of course, when they play the Bears.
When I realized how excited the potential purchase made me, I was reminded once again of what a full-fledged football junkie I am. Other than the hockey playoffs and the NFL draft, I spend January to August anxiously lusting for real entertainment. I greet the first regular season game with the relief that a crackhead must feel at the sight of his dealer. My hands grip the remote and after a few minutes I wonder how anyone could dispute God’s presence on this earth.
I’ve taken great pains thus far to mention the pleasure that I feel in regards to the game. It would be misleading for me not to mention the pain as well. The pain directly relates to my love for the aforementioned team, The Detroit Lions. Those of you in the know are probably thinking, “A Lions fan? He’d be better off if all the games were blacked out.” I concede that you may be right, but I’d counter that only through pain can a man recognize pleasure. That being said, the Lions have given me endless opportunities to know the antonym for pleasure over the years.
I never asked to be a Lions fan. I am a victim of geography. Like the ducks with Lorenz, the Lions were imprinted upon me at an early age and the imprint will never fade (unfortunately). Actually, when I wrote “early age” I very much meant it. I became a Lions fan before I was capable of even knowing what a sport was. My parents moved out to California briefly at the end of the sixties, and I was born during their trip. Even in the land of fruits and nuts, football continued to be an avid part of our family priorities. That’s why, on December 14, 1970, I witnessed the Lions beat the Rams in a squeaker at the Los Angeles Coliseum. I’d like to say that I remember the game but, being only one at the time, I am sad to say I do not.
The rest of that decade was not a good one if you were young and a Lions’ fan. However, one highlight was the first time I saw them in person. My father took me to a game at the Silverdome, shortly after it opened. I had never seen so much tobacco smoke in all my life. You could barely see the white dome above through all the blue smog. Another thing I couldn’t get over was the brightness of the colors. I asked my dad, “Why don’t the Lions look like this on television? They’re sparkly.” He said that their shade of blue, the Honolulu Blue, doesn’t show well on the screen. From that moment on, I’d always begin arguments with anyone who they said the Lions had boring uniforms with, “If you see them in person they’re actually a work of art. The blue…”
Despite their appearance, the Lions have not rewarded me often for my patronage over the years. As far as bad teams go, few have had as dismal a history as the Lions since 1969; although, the arrival of Billy Sims in the late seventies did much to revive their fan base. Billy instantly became my favorite player, and I used to fantasize that I was him as he ran down the field. Really, had it not been for his physical size, agility, strength, speed, appearance, God-given talent, mental toughness, and wealth, I could have been his spitting image.
The next highlight came in 1980 when, after a 4-0 beginning, the Motor City came alive with the chant: “Another One Bites the Dust.” We stole it from the band Queen, and the city was certain that Lions would make the playoffs by virtue of their strong beginning. We were wrong as usual. In the end, they went 9-7 and did not qualify for the post-season.
What could have been my greatest personal moment as a Lions fan came in 1993 when I got playoff tickets from a buddy for the Packers-Lions showdown. I had two seats at the far end of the stadium but couldn’t have been happier. I invited one my friends to go with me, but backed down after ex-fiancée insisted on her attendance. I was so whipped that I consented. She then insisted on my explaining the rules of the game to her as it transpired. As if that wasn’t bad enough, at the end of the game I saw Bret Favre toss a long ball to the back of the endzone where we were situated. I said, in the voice of a great football expert (and you’ll never know how embarrassing it is for me to admit this), “There’s that head case Favre, throwing at no one. What a jerk!” Seconds later, Sterling Sharpe danced out of the end zone with the game winning ball raised high above his head. Ask not for whom the jerk is…
This was not the low point of my fanship, however. The nadir came the following year after the Lions finished the season sensationally and traveled to Philadelphia to play the Eagles. I couldn’t wait to see the game and was brimming with optimism. To my lament, that same ex-fiancée dragooned me into attending a wedding in which she was a bridesmaid. I sat at the back of the church with a disposable camera and palpable disgust. A fellow in the same situation was on my right. Half-way into the ceremony he motioned for me to come over. I slid across the pew. He then pulled out a mini-television and we watched a portion of the second quarter together as vows were exchange. The outcome of the game was never in doubt as the Eagles annihilated the Lions by the score of 58-37. I was shell-shocked during the reception, but, in retrospect, the fact that I didn’t watch the game was a good thing, as it prevented my acquisition of a nasty case of post-traumatic stress disorder.
After moving to Chicago, I continued my closet masochism by joining my friend Johnny at Soldiers’ Field in 1998 to see the Lions play the Bears. It started out marvelously with the Lions scoring three quick touchdowns. Yet the ending was fairly typical as the Bears came back to win 31-27. Old Johnnie taunted me for a month, and Sundays like that one made me regret never becoming a recreational drug user.
Even with all the sorrow, I try to resist the temptation for self-pity regarding my team. I had to do that quite a bit last year whenever I watched Joey Harrington throw a perfect spiral to the other team’s players. After any lopsided loss, I remind myself that I am also a Red Wings fan and that their Stanley Cups in 1997, 1998, and 2002 gave me with more happiness than any fan deserves to have in a lifetime. Still, it’s hard being married to a team whose defensive backs are only slightly faster than the ones at the local high school.
My memories are not uniformly bad, however. The career of Barry Sanders is a good example. I was present at the Silverdome in 1994 for a game in which Barry Sanders turned a New England defender around two times on his way to the end zone. The play was replayed in Lions commercials for two full years. Pandemonium followed that touchdown and our group felt very lucky to have been in that very large room with such a magnificent back.
I even got the chance to meet him one time at a bar in Rochester, Michigan. He was playing pool with friends, and the bouncer warned us that he would not sign any autographs. That would not deter me, however. I could not have cared less about an autograph anyway. In between his shots, I walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.” I said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.” He gave me a nod and continued talking to his friend, but I couldn’t have been happier.
Another time, I met former Lions and Bears quarterback Erik Kramer at a bar on Woodward Avenue. We used to call it “The Loser Reserve” (actually called The Moose Preserve). He was leaning against the bar as I approached. I held out my hand. He shook it. I wanted to say something profound but was so under the influence of bottled Moosehead that I stammered: “Erik, buddy, hey, man keep up the good work. We need you, regardless of what the press says…Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He nodded and that was the end of the interview. My friends had a good laugh at my sophomoric behavior, but I find approaching the Lions to be irresistible when one of them happens to be around.
Optimism will always reign for me in my relationship with the Honolulu Blue. Yes, this year will be different. We have Mariucci. We have a practically new stadium. Yes, it will be completely different from the previous 33 years. This time we’re going to do something special. The 180 dollars for the total NFL package seems small indeed when compared to the joy of witnessing Harrington’s, Rogers’, and Boss Bailey’s development. Yes, it will be different and that’s why in a few minutes I will write out a check that ensures my misery for the next five months.
Bernard Chapin is a writer in Chicago.
