Like plenty people who hold state speech championships, love the smell of old books, have read the works of Hemingway, and find reading and writing poetry by candle light with Iron and Wine blazing in the background a fabulous way to spend a Friday night; I have never been gung-ho about the NFL. Actually, I have often made fun of it. Buncha brutish barbarians beating each other up—How uncivilized, I say in a French accent. Growing up I looked forward to the Super Bowl, but only because I knew there would be chicken wings and chips and dip—two passions of mine.
Whenever the subject of people’s fantasy lineup was brought up in conversation, I brought up the fact that I have a “fantasy” fantasy football team. My front line? Tyranosauraus Rexes, bitch! My kicker? A cannon. My wide receiver? A pterodactyl. My quarterback? A gorilla with a hell of an arm, riding a rhinoceros. He never gets sacked. My team is undefeated every year.
Though none of my family are obsessed with football to the point of failing college or forgetting that there are girls in the world, everyone from twelve-year-old Isaac on is historically way more into it than I. I still don’t know all the rules, because there are like, thousands. It’s easy for people with a box of speech trophies to be disparaging towards a sport that in such circles seems silly.
So I have always kept football at arm’s length. But not this year. This year I am jumping into football like a pool filled with frosting. This year I’ve seen the NFL in a new light. It’s not just about the sport. It’s not just about rooting for the team you want to win and hoping they are victorious. It’s about connecting with family and friends and the togetherness that any shared interest brings to a relationship. And it’s something that everyone, all ages in a family, can be a part of.
Isaac may not have been able to join in on my family’s recent discussion about international political economy and the effects of intellectual property rights imposed by developed countries on third world nations, but he knows, like we all do, that we hate the Vikings and are glad they always lose.
I enjoy asking my twelve and fourteen-year-old brothers about what’s happening in the NFL. They know much more than I do, and it’s an area of life where younger brothers genuinely have something to teach their ancient 28-year-old, bearded brother.
My family all has different allegiances in the NFL. This year it is exciting because basically everyone’s team made the play-offs. My brother Jacob is a Green Bay fan, so he’s the subject of much ridicule recently. But in the upcoming match-ups, most of my family’s teams are in. My dad is a Seahawks fan. In 2006 we all went to a Vikings game in Seahawks apparel, since everyone in my family (except 14-year-old John who likes girly colors) agrees that we hate the Vikings.
My brother Aaron and my 85-year old grandfather are diehard 49ers fans. They could go all the way this year, my grandpa tells me. My brother Tyler is a Bronco’s fan, and last Sunday I we went to Jacob’s house to watch the game. Jacob, since his Packers failed him in the play-offs, has jumped on the Bronco bandwagon.
Me, I’m a bandwagon hopper myself. This is an all-around exciting year. It’s the first time in a decade that I’ve been able to be home for almost two months and it is likely one of my family’s teams is going to go all the way. I root for whoever someone in my family is rooting for and share their victory with them. Shots! Shots! Shots! The better we all get at sharing each other’s joy, the more often we will find ourselves happy. Politically and religiously, my family may not agree on everything, but this year one thing is very clear, we all hate the Patriots and hope they die. Here’s to hoping someone buys a bunch of chicken wings for this year’s Super Bowl.
