Hail to the Nachos

I’ve gotten into football this year more than any past year. Years were spent faking it, through cheering on the Redskins and the Hokies while merely staking out the chili and nacho options. I might’ve shown up to the game, but I was there for the food. Football fans know their food: they know that a cheese dip just isn’t a dip unless it includes sausage, or that the only way to improve on good food is to deep fry it. While I show great self-restraint during the week, it melts like Velveeta at the sound of John Madden.

For years, sports enthusiasts freaked me out: people who spurt facts and figures of teams long gone, who analyze plays past the point of making it ten yards for a first down. In the past, I believed this to be a character flaw, a mismanaged use of a great memory and critical thinking skills. It made me uncomfortable when such people used mysterious words and phrases like “special teams” and “blitz.” I used phrases like “extra cheese” and “does anyone know if I can find some jalepenos around here?”

The more seasons passed the more I learned to appreciate football, although initially not as a show of athleticism. I enjoyed football for its ability to bring people together. Some people I otherwise had nothing in common with could be my big ally in the Monday night game. Any other day of the week, we might struggle through forced conversation, but during a game, we’d yell and cheer and high five (or moan and whine and commiserate). Noticing its ability to bring people together, I started to ask my football guru friends to give me one analysis of a big game for me to memorize and pass off as personal opinion, repeated ad nauseum through the week. At the coffeemaker at work, I’d nonchalantly recite my rehearsed opinion of a team’s running game, secretly fearing that someone might ask me to define running game, exposing me as the fraud I was. No worries. People would launch into a diatribe on the subject as I stirred my coffee and nodded. A friendship was formed. They’d see me around the halls and I suddenly was more than just that web developer who sat in the corner. I was a football fan. I was one of them.

The most dramatic example of the power of football came a few years ago during a conversation with my father. At the time, he and I weren’t the closest pair and found little in common. During one quiet family dinner, he casually mentioned the Steelers game that evening. He hails from western Pennsylvania, where the Steelers rank with God as entities one must have faith in. Coincidentally my memorized quote of the week, courtesy of my coworker Rich, was about the Steelers. I hid my smile behind my pizza and said, “You know, it might’ve been a long run, but sticking with Cower really paid off.” I had no idea who or what a Cower was (a coach, apparently), but I knew my father would. His mouth dropped open, his pizza fell from his hands, as he looked at me with a combination of awe and admiration. More than any other time, more than the ballet recitals or the graduations, I impressed the hell out of my dad. Football can do crazy things like that.

Football is capable of all sorts of miracles. While sitting in stands, I lose my taste for a nice dry cabernet sauvignon and crave a light beer. A light beer. Even in DC, where people can’t agree about anything but the traffic, a touchdown has us all on our feet and singing "Hail to the Redskins," suddenly a group of 90,000 friends. Nothing makes me smile like two strangers high-fiving. What else could provoke such unrestrained signs of enthusiasm? I have a theory that football allows some men to break down their barriers, to reach out to new friends. That theory earns me a lot of eye rolling for turning a sport into a sociological study, but next time a game is on in a bar, watch the men. While otherwise most would sit within their own surly bubble, football gives them a shared interest. It sparks friendship between men who otherwise fear that initiating conversation with a man they don’t know renders them ineligible for any military service but the Navy.

This year, I’ve enjoyed football for football’s sake. Occasionally, my take on the game is quickly echoed by the commentator, telling me I’m getting things right. I know what a running game is, I know a crap call when I hear one. I’m still not getting everything right, though. Even when the opposing team wins, I still say things like, “But just imagine how happy their families are right now. Doesn’t that make it OK?” Apparently, it doesn’t. Other than this sense of compassion (to all but Terrell Owens), I’m beginning to understand the strategy, to know that these aren’t a bunch of big oafs running into each other, but part of a well-calculated system of plays.

Still, however, my favorite part of football isn’t what happens on the field, but in the stands, at the watercooler, or in my home. My favorite part comes when my couch is full of friends, laughing and cheering together, or when people who have a hard time opening up to others can do so because football provides a common interest. My favorite part of football is the sense of camaraderie it creates.

Well, that and the nachos.