The Football Fan's Manifesto Part 8

LEADING R REPUBLICAN D DONOR.

What good is a bunch of rich old white people if they're not funneling money to the GOP? Wouldn't want the NFL to be branded a terrorist organization, now, would we? Especially with all those bombs flying around the field of play. Examples: Examples: Alex Spanos, Woody Johnson Alex Spanos, Woody Johnson

UPSTANDING B BORING O OLD G GUY.

The ownership group can always use some fusty old guys who know the league from its heyday. The difficulty here for newcomers is that these people come from families that have long been involved with the league. And most former players typically succ.u.mb to painful conditions sustained during their career before they have time to cobble the money together. At least they have thirty-eight-member pregame announcing teams to join.

Examples: Dan Rooney, Jerry Richardson Dan Rooney, Jerry Richardson

PENNY-PINCHING C CANCEROUS F f.u.c.kWIT.

If they had their druthers, these owners would just as soon pay the parking attendants to suit up on gameday than pour any money into the product on the field. They alienate their fans, yet take years to fire patently incompetent employees. A study of poor management, they test the limits of fan patience. And if they show their faces in public, the limits of a fan's brick-throwing arm.

Examples: Mike Brown, Bill Bidwill, William Clay Ford, Sr. Mike Brown, Bill Bidwill, William Clay Ford, Sr.

MEGATYc.o.o.n W WHO O OWNS M MULTIPLE S SPORTS T TEAMS.

The only thing that owners respect more than money is a s.h.i.tload of money. Just so long as they keep their NBA and Premier League teams far, far away from our football.

Example: Paul Allen, Malcolm Glazer Paul Allen, Malcolm Glazer

MR. H HOME D DEPOT M MAN.

Because the NFL could use the founders of more companies with atrocious customer service. Is the founder of Best Buy interested in purchasing a team? He'd fit right in.

Example: Arthur Blank Arthur Blank

THE G GUYS W WHO D DON'T M MUCH L LIKE W WHERE T THEIR T TEAM I IS L LOCATED No one said you have to love the market you inherit. This is a business, after all. Why should you look with anything other than contempt at the people who have supported your business over the years? It's not like they're your immediate family.

Examples: Ralph Wilson, Tom Benson, Zygi Wilf Ralph Wilson, Tom Benson, Zygi Wilf

RELATIVES OF P PREVIOUS O OWNERS.

Yeah, remember when I said this was a tough crowd to break into? Wasn't lying. Swearing and blaspheming, yes, but not lying. Sports franchises tend to stay family possessions for a good long while, meaning your best hope was probably to have married into one of these clans. Instead you choose to spend your life becoming a self-made success. That's okay. Half the owners in the league didn't grow up rooting for the team they own now. Do you really want to a.s.sociate with people like that?

Examples: Clark Hunt, Jim Irsay, John Mara, Steve Tisch, Denise York, Virginia McCaskey, Mike Brown, Dan Rooney, Chip Rosenbloom Clark Hunt, Jim Irsay, John Mara, Steve Tisch, Denise York, Virginia McCaskey, Mike Brown, Dan Rooney, Chip Rosenbloom X.4 Remain Die-hard Even When You're About to Die It's a tragic eventuality that our bodies will suffer the ravages of age, leaving us as immobile and useless as Drew Bledsoe, at least until a special kind of water pill is developed that will keep us from growing old. Bill Parcells is hard at work screaming at scientists for this to happen.

For the time being, we must brave the murky fog of senility to root on for our favorite team, even if it means p.i.s.sing ourselves slightly more often than in our younger days. We may not be able to throw back the booze like we used to, may not be able to toss the ball around at the tailgate anymore, and may not have gotten it up in a decade, but our pa.s.sion for the game is no less strong.

How does one conquer the limitations placed upon us by bodily rot? A strict regiment of drugs, mostly. Other than that, you've got to remember to go easy on yourself. Conserving your strength is a must. Don't waste energy fighting with the staff stealing your money at the nursing home when there are senior fans of other teams to sc.r.a.p with.

The culture of football is a distinctly Darwinian one. No quarter is shown to the elderly fan, nor should he expect any. There will be many instances when, pulling for his favorite team, the fan of advanced age will be confronted with the threats of a younger, more able-bodied rival, who, in addition to superior coordination and strength, touts the full use of his bladder and extremities.

On paper, this looks like a mismatch. But it needn't be an immediate cause for alarm. Indeed, the cliche that old age and treachery will always overcome the forces of youth and Dutch courage is true, especially in instances where the old guy isn't cornered and able to bribe the kid to leave him in peace.

Generally, though, the young are malleable and can be dealt with using a few simple tricks that are also effective on household pets. It's important to get them down pat, since more young miscreants will be on the streets with the Democrats controlling the White House again.

The key is to be well-armed. Who's gonna suspect the elderly? Not the c.o.c.ky young a.s.shole who thinks himself invincible, that's for sure. Of course, this strategy is best suited for altercations outside the stadium. Inside, past searches at the gate, you'll have to hang close to ushers and medical staff.

X.5 To a Bears Fan Dying Young Today we gather to celebrate the life of Kevin Murawski, father, patriot, amateur p.o.r.nography enthusiast, pipe fitter, closet sestina writer, and most of all, Bears fan. One h.e.l.l of a Bears fan at that.

If ever there was a true Monsters of the Midway fan, it was Kevin. His mark of 461 consecutive games watched is a Herculean feat that few can say they have equaled. Even when his health declined, he made sure there was nothing that got between him and his beloved team. We all remember the game against Detroit where he showed up at Soldier Field with the colostomy pouch in tow. I bet that guy in the Herman Moore jersey regrets ever talking trash to him while he was in throwing range.

Kevin loved his team and all the tradition that surrounded it. It was always a great source of pride for him that the NFC championship trophy was named after George Halas. Any year the Bears didn't go to the Bowl, he'd remark during the trophy presentation, "That's our trophy. We're just lettin' 'em borrow it for a year." A douchey sentiment? Surely. More grating every time he did it? Absolutely. But it brought him joy during an otherwise dour moment. And he was good for that. When others thought the worst of the Bears, he played the optimist, even beyond the bounds of reason. He defended each of the pitiful quarterbacks who has come through the Bears organization in the past twenty years, logic be d.a.m.ned.

Rick Mirer? "Shows incredible poise, even when forcing wounded ducks into double coverage."

Craig Krenzel? "He was very clutch in college at Ohio State. That's bound to surface in the pros if we give him a few more seasons under center."

Kordell Stewart? "Any quarterback fast enough to chase down the defensive backs who catch his pa.s.ses is a real a.s.set."

Moses Moreno? "He might not be any good, but starting a Hispanic quarterback sends a positive message about the franchise being open to inept quarterbacks of all colors."

Not Rex Grossman, however. There were limits even to Kevin's blind homerism.

Let there be no doubt that his was a full life. Kevin's father made a point of telling him he was conceived the evening the Bears won the NFL championship in 1941, which is still an uncomfortable fact even in death. Had he not had a bad case of whiskey d.i.c.k, he might have accomplished the same feat when Chicago won Super Bowl XX. Indeed, witnessing the '85 Bears' prolific run was one of the great thrills of life, a fact he made sure to remind people of on a near hourly basis. Like many fans, he begrudged Mike Ditka for not allowing an aged Walter Payton to get a score in the historic reaming of the Patriots. A copy of the tearful apology letter we wrote to Sweetness the week after the game remains framed on his living room wall.

The Bears meant everything to him, which made it really easy for him to blot out the important emotional connections he made over the years. His wife Diane was his loving, and loved, companion, as fiercely loyal to him as he was to his football team. As many of you know, when she first met Kevin, she was a Packers fan. Only through kind jostling and a series of maybe-kidding-but-maybe-not threats did he bring her around to the Bears' side. Her capacity for love was enough to overlook this bit of fan manipulation, or at least so we all thought until she turned their children into followers of the Pack. He still found it in his heart to give them his undying love, at least for thirty weeks out of the year.

We can take comfort knowing he's gone to a better place-one where d.i.c.k Jauron is not-at least until pitchfork-wielding Buffalo fans dismember him. We shouldn't think of his pa.s.sing as an extinguishing of the torch of fandom, but as an opening of another choice seat at the stadium. I know most of you are awaiting the reading of his will, but as soon as the executor of his estate can make sense of it through all the greasy brat stains, we'll be sure to report who gets what.

Let us pour out some Old Style and sing a round of "Bear Down, Chicago Bears" for our fallen comrade. It's what he would want as a dying wish. That and Lambeau Field being carpet bombed into the Stone Age, but we're still cobbling together the funds for that one. In the meantime, let's pull a Cedric Benson and get s.h.i.tfaced and make some bad decisions.

X.6 Hector Your Favorite Players into the Hall of Fame Upon reaching an advanced age, you want to be comforted in the knowledge that your life signified a lasting, greater Something. For most, it's a struggle to define what that legacy was. Absent an easy revelation, the average person will fall back on heavy doses of delusion, empty accolades, and a collection of grubby snot-nosed grandchildren. But if your life was comprised mainly of yelling slander about people's moms in support of a football team, seeing the players you valued most immortalized in the Hall of Fame becomes life's remaining goal. Even if that recognition comes in the form of an ugly, urine-colored jacket and a bust that looks nothing at all like the cherished athlete it honors.

That validation of the premier players of your era being inducted into the Hall of Fame takes on the utmost importance, not only because those players were critical fixtures for your team over an extended period of time, but because they prove to future generations that your salad days of fandom were of merit. And that they missed something special. Redskins fans shamelessly lobbied for a decade to get famously boring wide receiver Art Monk in the Hall, to the point that that's all they talked about on sports radio shows, during dinner, in the middle of s.e.x, or even to the dutiful postal carriers desperately looking for an out. They harangued anyone who would listen for so long that Monk was finally allowed into Canton, most likely just to appease these singularly obsessed b.u.t.tholes. And, you know, once he and Darrell Green got in the same year, the 'Skins fans quieted down some. Just goes to show that being unbearable has its benefits sometimes.

Some players are obvious shoo-ins to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. For those world-beaters, there's little fans have to do to ply their case to the forty-four-member Pro Football Hall of Fame Board of Selectors. It's the stars with less than megawattage, those having a resume with stats in the upper tier but not at the top, and those not fortunate enough to be a member of a dynasty who will challenge fans to put together a compelling case. The board you have to convince is a fastidious lot, accustomed as they are to being sucked up to by fans and being dismissed out of hand by players. Just the recipe for twisting any otherwise normal individual into a sad, embittered, crotchety husk of a douche.

Bribing the selection committee that is responsible for enshrining candidates into the Hall is no easy task. Any finalist for induction must receive at least 80 percent of the vote from paunchy white guys who never played the sport. So it's going to take more than simply prevailing upon them to acknowledge that the player in question is great. Get to know them, know their vices, know their biases. Thirty-two of them are media representatives from cities where a team is located (New York has two). If there's anyone who can be bought off with cheap s.h.i.t, it's members of the mainstream media. For the majority of them, it doesn't take anything more than a six-inch Subway sandwich. The less healthy the better. Nothing b.u.t.ters up sports writers like sugar cookies slathered in cake batter.

Of the remainders, eleven are at-large members and one is a member of the Pro Football Writers of America. The at-large guys are national NFL writers who are no less susceptible to the spoils of gift baskets and topless photos of Peyton Manning. What makes them most difficult to convince is that they are wont to retain petty grudges against any player you like, whether or not the incident that sparked the grudge occurred within the last fifteen years. Most likely, said incident happened when the player was a rookie and had to blow off the writer for an entirely justifiable reason. Being a sad, cantankerous old t.u.r.dlet, the writer has held onto this enmity for long enough to get his kids in on the act. Hate to break it to you, but there's nothing a fan can do to reverse the grudge. Once writers have antipathy set in their minds for the tiniest slight by a player, they'll never let it go. You might as well put their induction out of your mind. Unless you get compromising photos of said writer after-hours in flagrante at the aquarium. Len Pasquarelli knows what I mean. If you can pull that, make your reservations for summer in Canton soon, while you can still only be minorly fleeced by the packages.

X.7 On Death and Deep-frying Like every storied NFL career, every life eventually comes to a close, though not without considerable kicking and screaming and pitiful attempts to hang on as long as possible, possibly in the form of a comeback with the Jets. Incidentally, that sentence marked the only time in your life the phrase "storied NFL career" has been applied to you. Quite a thrill, I bet. It's nice to have that happen before you check out.

There are a number of things you can do to ready yourself for your pa.s.sing. The first matter to consider is clearing up the division of your estate. The house, the stock options, the priceless collection of signed throwback jerseys, drawer after drawer full of enchanted undergarments for big games.

Pa.s.sing off season tickets to a next of kin is the most significant of these considerations. For some, this decision is made easy by circ.u.mstance. Maybe you have no kids or only one. Or only one that you choose to acknowledge. Those who condemned themselves to an early grave with multiple offspring are forced to choose between the squabbling h.e.l.lions. Which one of them demonstrated more zeal for the team? Which one accompanied you to games with the express purpose of driving your drunk a.s.s home? Which had the fastest response time to your requests for beer? Which is actually willing to pay the excessive personal seat license fees?

Don't be afraid to let your kids know in your waning years that they are in direct compet.i.tion with each other for the prize. It ensures a considerable delay in the inevitable placement in a retirement home, let alone fewer smarmy remarks when you let one loose in your pants. It's also really fun to watch. Fight! Fight for my love!

As for dying itself, I can't promise you it's going to be pleasant. In fact, it's probably going to be agonizing, not unlike the feeling of having a harpoon jammed into your peehole, only spread over your entire body. Well, man up. Going over the middle for a tough catch ain't no Swiss picnic either, and that only stops p.u.s.s.ies like Todd Pinkston from doing it.

On the other hand, it could be relatively benign. Who knows for sure? Definitive research is somewhat lacking on the subject. Another reason to chide non-sports-fans for the failures of science.

What you can know beforehand is that it is your duty to represent your team even in pa.s.sing. Unless you were found to have switched teams at some point in your life, in which case your corpse will be swaddled in cat-urine-soaked blankets and tossed from a Jeep into the most jackal-filled clearing that can be found. Once they've picked the carca.s.s clean, the clearing will be bombed.

For the honorable fan, splurging on ridiculously expensive NFL licensed merchandise one last time is a fitting send-off. Take the real life example of James Henry Smith, a fifty-five-year-old Pennsylvania man who pa.s.sed away in 2005. For the viewing, Smith's family had the funeral home place his body in a recliner facing a television playing Steelers highlights, remote control in hand. Truly this is an exemplar of a loving and obedient family. Don't expect much the same out of yours unless you provide them with detailed instructions laying out exactly how to give you the last good-bye.

Be specific to the letter in expressing your final wishes. Spell out in breathtaking detail your vision of having your urn placed in the front seat of a car packed with C-4 and driven into a Patriots fans tailgate (having a Ma.s.sachusetts license plate that reads FUPATS adds a special flourish to your final blaze of glory). Cremation not your thing? Instruct family members to befriend grounds crew members at the stadium. Getting buried under the fifty-yard line will give you a privileged resting place that only a select circle of fans and Jimmy Hoffa have enjoyed.

I'll implore you to be so a.n.a.l as to list which highlights you would like to be played during this tribute. Nice catches that come in games the team lost are too bittersweet for eternal repose. Also note that several companies offer urns and caskets emblazoned with team logos. Don't let those maggots chewing on your body after you're buried be confused about where your allegiances lie.

If at all possible, die in a public place. You'll probably get hauled off in an ambulance. Done properly, it will have the appearance of an NFL player being carted off the field. If you can ward off the reaper long enough to make it to the hospital, you can give the onlooking gawkers the famed thumbs up from the stretcher. Finally, in death, you're living the fantasy.

X.8 The Afterlife, or As It's Known in Football-Speak, the Post-Life See? Death wasn't so bad. The excruciating pain lasted, at most, mere days. You got off easy. A Browns fan has a similar sensation stretched over an entire lifetime. The bright side: no matter how you acted in life, you can spend eternity watching the NFL. Even h.e.l.l isn't so cruel as to deny you that, as Satan needs the gambling revenue. The rub is that you're forced to watch the games with Eagles fans and only get the broadcasts with Phil Simms doing commentary.

If you satisfy the stringent requirements needed to get into heaven, well, you're likely insufferably boring. But also in luck, for heaven is a fan's paradise in addition to being a regular paradise. Ma.s.sive HD flat screens everywhere, no hangovers, unlimited tap beer, top shelf whiskey and wings, and, best of all, no Cowboys fans.

Without responsibilities and with an eternity of free time laid out before you, there's no pressure not to act like a meddling a.s.swipe all the time. Feel free to arbitrarily manipulate the fortunes of teams, individuals, or millions of fantasy leagues. Watch the Chargers' cheerleaders gnaw away at their edible uniforms after the game (because you know that's what happens). What in this mortal coil would be a drain on your time or would land you in hot water becomes a perfectly devious undertaking in the afterlife. You've got nothing but time to undermine the course of natural events.

Now's your chance to finally influence the games you love so dear. Haunting players on rival teams is not only a pleasure but incredibly effective. Peyton Manning's early career playoff implosions were the direct result of the enterprising spirit of one bitterly departed Baltimore Colts fan. NFL players are haunted all the time. It's one of the unspoken drawbacks of the game. The haunting is actually the cause of a lot of the drug use in the league. When you're already seeing stuff that weird, you might as well, right? Once you build up some clout up there, they'll even let you deflect the occasional field goal. Scott Norwood isn't going to be pleasant when he meets the ghost who caused that one.

Even off-seasons become less unbearable, as the all-time greats stage daily games spread across a host of heavenly stadia. They can't stop doing it, because Gene Upshaw negotiated a bad deal with the angels running the show. As in life, the afterlife grants favors to the athletically inclined. That's why there are far more former Raiders in heaven than you would have ever thought possible. Pressing questions about who is the best ever are answered on a daily basis. If only sportswriters weren't consigned to the most chemical fiery circle of h.e.l.l, they'd be awfully depressed, what with the absence of s.p.a.ce for pointless speculation...

Because in heaven you get to pick how you would like to appear to others for eternity, all the players are in their athletic prime and there's a blissful abundance of hot cheerleaders. The one drawback: your grandparents and great grandparents are also young-looking and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g all the time. It's gross.

EPILOGUE.

This Book Gets Summ-ed Up! Clap, Clap, Clap-Clap-Clap!

The cliche goes that men lead lives of quiet desperation. Had Th.o.r.eau lived to witness the NFL, he'd have seen that fans found a better way of being, a path of loud, intoxicated, worshipful desperation. Given the quality of his playoff beard, he probably would have liked it.

A self-serious person will often try to tell the fan that he squanders the gift of life. That he is crazed because his emotions swing wildly based on the outcome of trivial events that were never in his control. That he is belligerent to his peers, neglectful of his family, and slovenly in appearance.

The fan usually responds by calling him a b.i.t.c.h.

In spite of cra.s.s behavior, fans give purpose to great events. We create the possibility for human achievement, because the great among us require the approbation of others. We also need a pack of people to jump into after a touchdown.

People in all walks of life are fans of something, whether it is the arts, politics, science, or tentacle p.o.r.n. and we all look ridiculous when caught up with the object of our adoration. The only difference is that football fans made the right pick in what to follow. Sure, we are not always shown the loyalty we give. Fans exhibit fiery pa.s.sion for a team that bilks them and generally takes their love for granted. but still we cheer, hoping for those transcendent moments when we are reminded why we show up each week. And, failing that, holding a good buzz.

Rewards come in the form of wins, championships, and the occasional sloppy parking-lot b.l.o.w. .j.o.b. These are great moments, memories to last a lifetime. Oddly enough, it's not necessarily what keeps us coming back. Those revelations come when we discover that the rest of life is a procession of deadening tedium between chances to tie one on. And if you can do it while getting crazy over some football, all the better.

About the Author.

Sports blogger and freelance writer MICHAEL TUNISON MICHAEL TUNISON is the cofounder of the NFL blog Kissing Suzy Kolber. He is also a contributing writer for Deadspin, With Leather, Pro Football Talk, and Yahoo's Shutdown Corner. He lives in Alexandria, Virginia. is the cofounder of the NFL blog Kissing Suzy Kolber. He is also a contributing writer for Deadspin, With Leather, Pro Football Talk, and Yahoo's Shutdown Corner. He lives in Alexandria, Virginia.

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