Sunday, October 6, 2013

Genetic fan phobias

The outcome of the Bears game is connected to my Sunday clothing...

Last week in a crushing defeat the Chicago Bears lost.   It was all my fault, well it was my fault.  The father of a good friend passed away last week so I drove to the wake and listened to the game in my car.  Unfortunately due to the vast prairie surrounding Chicago I drove to Woodstock, IL nearly thirty minutes out of my way and almost attended a stranger's wake in know the dreaded PACKERS state (I am spitting on the ground to clear my palate of the Cheesehead Nation.)  I had spent a good hour the morning of the wake trying to figure out how I could sneak my Bears T-shirt under my black dress without looking like I was in body armor.  She is a very good friend and so at the last minute I put on a nice shirt and slacks and painfully listened to the Detroit Lions defeat the Bears as I passed a sign to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin (now I know why I hate the colors green and is too rich a color to attribute to the PACK.)

I have been a CUBS fan since we almost made it to the world series back in the 80's.  So accepting defeat gracefully is a well honed skill of mine.  But for some reason this week as I watch the New Orleans Saints run our defense like novices in a tennis match, I have hope that we will recover since I am wearing my Bears shirt.  Of course also giving the team a boost are my shouts at the TV screen.  Since it is a relatively nice day my windows are open and my neighbors are joining me as our sage advice wafts across the cool fall breeze.  My arguments with the commentators are met with a stony silence and I notice a scroll on the bottom of the screen that invites me to text my comments during half time.  But I would rather share with my faithful blog readers my completely biased views including for those color blind fans, my preference for pink over yellow (see reference to the PACK above.)

I grew up in a college football family so I  think the NFL phenomenon was introduced to me when I moved west from New York.  My college hosted the Jets during the summer which may have also piqued my interest.  I do not often talk about my time with my ex-husband, but I did appreciate his insight regarding football.  For instance, I do not recall when it became acceptable to have your entire body at the one yard line but be able to simply hold the ball, or in some cases trip with the ball, over the line for a touchdown.  I am pretty sure my Dad had hammered in our heads that for a play to be a touchdown you needed the majority of your body across the line.   Two feet firmly planted he kept shouting as he literally carried us past the rake towards the Y shaped tree limbs.  In addition, no one has been able to adequately explain why we bother with replay.  Call it on the field and let's be done with the hours of review.  It is so much more fun to argue with co-workers rehashing the play when it has been viewed and interpreted by misguided fans. 

My Mother was and still is a rabid hockey fan.  She claps her hands and yells at the screen and mispronounces all those French Canadian names and generally gets her 86 year old blood pumping.  Sitting in my little cottage, with my windows ajar, in my Bears attire I get why she behaves in an assuredly unlady like manner.  We are caught in the moment, swept up in the momentum of a play that could decide the fate of the world as we know it.  Too dramatic?  I think not, especially since I have family members that are turncoat PACKERS fans who smugly recite their team statistics while munching on nachos dripping with cheddar, just waiting for the Bears to crumble on November 4th and December 29th. 

It is time for me to cast aside my doubts about the second half of the game and return to my overstuffed chair, remote in hand.  I assure all of you that for the rest of the season I will not make the same mistake of abandoning my Bears T-shirt on game day.  They need me more than the fashion world...GO Bears!     

1 comment:

  1. My favorite memories of those football games were the large egg size bruises Dad would tell us to rub it and keep on playing. You didn't dare to look at them for fear of seeing the broken bone sticking out.