Read The Football Fan's Manifesto Online
Authors: Michael Tunison
The Football Fan's Manifesto (12 page)
Room for variation exists within the high-five family, but tread carefully. The Classic involves throwing your arm forward at a near forty-five-degree angle with the palm facing forward. This is the vintage, more exuberant
high
five. A bit campy, but undeniably infectious. The Variation is the more greeting-friendly
regular
five, which involves one person, the fivee, placing his palm supine and the other, the fiver, slapping his palm downward onto the waiting hand of the fivee. This is the more informal maneuver, and its distinction from the high five mirrors the difference between a hug and a handshake. Except fans are judged more harshly for their fives than regular folk are for their handshakes. Firm handshake but awkward five? Very questionable.
You must actually make full contact with your co-fiver’s hand. You wouldn’t believe how many people botch this one. A glancing blow off the other person’s hand is just as awkward as a full miss. Like horseshoes, hand grenades, and hand jobs, there is no almost in high fives. And alcohol is no excuse for failed hand-eye coordination. The
government would be well advised to add a high-five exam on the driving test. Young, drunk, and face-palmed is no way to go through life.
This is about as extravagant as you can get if you’re a white guy. Black people may press the flesh further. White guys, you may observe them in awe, but by no means should you attempt to imitate them. They know what they’re doing. You do not.
The Fist Bump and Fist Pound
The fist bump and fist pound are slightly less orthodox, but perfectly acceptable substitutes for the high five. However, they should be used only in conjunction with the high five, in the way ranch dip is used to complement wings. A person who employs the fist bump alone is not only limiting himself as a fan, but possibly stepping into danger’s path by constantly proffering his fist in strangers’ faces. When those people are drunk, the potential for trouble reaches Pacman-in-Vegas levels.
The Chest Bump and Ass Bump
The chest bump and the more dreaded ass bump should only be executed with a strong sense of irony and ideally with someone of the opposite gender. Tailgating would be the best time to pull off such a move, if at all. Make sure everyone in the vicinity has tied a few on and is ready to laugh at wacky, borderline uncomfortable hijinks. With the mood is relaxed, you’re less likely to have
objects hurled your way. Remember, that’s less likely, not entirely unlikely.
V.7 Like All Extreme Sports, Running onto the Playing Field Is Dumb and Wrong—and Irresistible
Sinister forces of temptation goad you toward the forbidden. Alcohol has done its part to convince you that it is doable. From your close-in seat in the fifth row, all that separates you from the stomping grounds of your beloved gladiators is a quick plunge over the wall and the swarming gauntlet of a couple dozen security guards and police officers. Nothing you can’t handle. It’s a scenario you’ve been turning over in your head for years, but you never thought you’d find yourself in a mindset to act on it. If you can just bob and weave enough, make a few guys miss, you can be on the field long enough to steal a cheerleader grope or maybe even slap the smug clear off Jack Del Rio’s assface. After that, who knows, the means for a daring escape should present itself. You can think on your feet.
But, wait, you’ve seen this before. All those arm-flailing fucktards on
SportsCenter
reels and YouTube clips scurrying on the field for a few fleeting moments before getting ingloriously force-fed some turf by security. Nah. You’re better than them. They looked so…so loutish. You’re above all that, someone who can sprinkle Gallicisms in your inner monologues, far above such gutter exploits and…and you’ve already gone, haven’t you? It sucks being a drunk person’s conscience. Always being on a
five-second delay, like a network television live broadcast. Instead of filtering out swearing, it keeps out reason.
Streaking is not advocated, mostly because you’re almost certainly going to get gang tackled by mouthbreathing rent-a-cops, arrested, and banned from the stadium for life, in the process making a public jackass of yourself and your family.
Finding yourself unable to quell the demons that compel you to rush the field? At least try to keep them at bay until an opportune moment. Or get some cash out of the deal. At the very least, only make an attempt if you know you’re slippery enough to evade capture for a solid minute or so. Nothing is quite as sad as someone who wastes his one big chance at public jackassery with the epic failure of immediate apprehension. If you do, despite all the logical reasons that say you shouldn’t, decide to take a shot, here are some sound suggestions:
Get an unscrupulous company to sponsor you.
—That’s what serial streaker Mark Roberts did when he ran out onto the field during Super Bowl XXXVIII. Hopping a knee-high barrier at Reliant Stadium, he stripped down to a G-string and shoes with a plug for gambling site GoldenPalace.com scrawled on his chest. For this, he got slapped with a $1,000 fine yet avoided any jail time. And that was during the motherfucking Super Bowl. That’s like calling in a bomb threat to the White House and getting a point on your driver’s license. The terms of the sponsorship were never disclosed, but even if it was a financial
wash, he got to streak during the Super Bowl with little or no consequence. That’s more than a little awesome.
If you’re going naked, be sure to wave your junk at the opposing team.
—It’ll not only assert dominance, but remind them of the days when Charles Haley was in the league.
If you’re a woman and going naked, be sure to wave your junk at the camera.
—It’s just common courtesy. Unless you’re a Packers fan. Then please disregard. And put on four more layers.
Have a sympathetic angle ready.
—In 2005, a forty-four-year-old man ran onto the field in Philadelphia holding a plastic bag emitting a cloud of dust from his outstretched arm before dropping to his knees on the 30-yard line and making the sign of the cross. Was he trying to be the next Johnny Anthraxseed? Nope. Turns out he was spreading the ashes of his recently deceased mother, who was an avid Eagles fan. Sure, it didn’t stop kneejerk security storm troopers from detaining him, but you bet your beer-battered ass it inspired some clemency.
Remember that the players have bottled-up fan animosity.
—It can’t be stressed too much that the yellow-jacketed Gestapo are not your only obstacles during your jaunts onto the playing field. The players themselves will be all too happy to assist in your undoing. It’s not that they’re upset to have a stoppage in play. Most of them are probably exhausted and glad to have the brief respite. However, after years of having to hold back from lashing out at fans
in the face of intense personal criticism on things beyond viewers’ comprehension, the chance to clothesline a fan with impunity is an opportunity a player cannot soon pass up. So resist the urge to pat a linebacker on the shoulder lest you feel like getting speared in the ribs.
Disrupt the game (but only if it helps your team).
—In October 2005, a fan in Cincinnati rushed the field in the final minute of a Bengals-Packers game, snatching the ball from then-Packers QB Brett Favre and causing the play to be blown dead. At the time, the Packers were trailing 21-14 and trying to drive for a tying score, with the ball inside Bengals’ territory. The five-minute break the incident caused allowed the Bengals’ winded defense to regroup. Favre was then sacked on the following play, which contributed heavily to sealing the win for Cincy. As you can see, it’s the opportunistic and savvy disruptive fan who wins the day. That he ends up getting buried alive hours later by guys who put money on the game is another matter entirely.
V.8 The Challenge of the Superfans
In the annals of rabid fandom, only a privileged few have reached the lofty heights of the superfan, where the standard-issue fanatic transcends the mundane acts of regular cheering and becomes something more. The superfan can come off as a deranged soul possessed with the flair of a Broadway costume designer. To those who know better, they are lovably intense folks you’re happy to have on your
side. Superfans are held in such esteem among those in their own fan base that they, in effect, become synonymous with the franchise itself. Granted, the privilege of being one earns a whole lot of bubkes. In fact, the effort necessary to be recognized as a superfan will set you back a pretty penny, nevertheless you’ll be paid back tenfold with the admiration of hordes of drunk people.
No sporting league honors its most frighteningly faithful quite like the NFL. From 1999 to 2005, Visa sponsored a special display at the Pro Football Hall of Fame called the Hall of Fans. Each year during that span, one fan representing each team was chosen to be added to this pantheon of pathology. After Visa ended its sponsorship, the selection process was shelved, but the display remains. Presumably next to the exhibit of photographs of owners bathing in money reaped from charging outrageous amounts for personal seat licenses.
It’s just as well that the annual inductions ended. Most teams are fortunate if they have one iconic fan, let alone six or more. Hell, the Cardinals organization is thrilled if their stadium is less than 60 percent road fans. Also, letting in thirty-some-odd candidates a year dilutes the honor considerably. If anything, it should be conducted like the selection process for the regular Hall of Fame, where there are at most a handful of entrants each year and they are voted on by putatively objective writers who let petty grudges and arbitrary factors decide who should and shouldn’t get in. That seems to work okay.
Superfan status can’t be attained overnight. It takes years of painstaking gimmick-honing and camera-mugging. There’s no hope for cheapskates, either. You have to be front and center for the networks to pick you up on crowd shots. Every game too. That means season tickets in the front row, no less. Simply follow the example of these fans who have carved out a place for themselves in football fandom lore.
Chief Zee
—Zema Williams, a fixture at Redskins games for more than three decades, wears a full head-dress and carries a twelve-inch tomahawk with him to games at the unbearable FedEx Field. He’s earned his war paint too. In a 1983 visit to Veterans Stadium in Philly, Chief Zee had his leg broken and his costume torn by murderous Eagles fans. And yet, he was not pelted with a single battery. I’d say he got off easy by Eagles fan standards. The Redskins, of course, can also boast the rooting presence of a troop of twelve cross-dressing pig fans known as the Hogettes. But they don’t appear in Eastern Motors commercials.
Fireman Ed
—Ed Anzalone is believed by some to be the originator of the Jets’ signature “J-E-T-S, JETS, JETS, JETS” chant. This immediately negates any heroism cred he may have accumulated as a member of the New York City fire department.
Catman
—The six-four, 340-pound Greg Good attends every home game at Bank of America Stadium
sporting a giant blue shock of hair, a cape, and two oversized blue Incredible Hulk–sized fists. Now, when you refer to the Panthers colors, you have to say Carolina blue, because the state is annoying enough to try to lay claim to a shade of a color.
Birdman
—Not to be confused with Harvey Birdman, Joseph Ripley sticks with the obvious animal theme in his fandom foolery, much like NFC rival Catman. Birdman wears a beak underneath his face mask-less helmet, along with a rather aerodynamic cape. Using his power of flight, he can change up the usual Eagles fan approach by dropping nine volts on you from above.
Barrel Man
—Proof positive that your superfan gimmick need not have anything to do with the team name itself, Tim McKernan spent thirty years in the service for his beloved Broncos, looking like a hobo in the stands at Mile High Stadium and even getting a Super Bowl ring from the team in 1998. In 2007, he finally hung up his barrel. Hopefully he had something on underneath.
The Packalope
—A play on the mystical jackalope, a cross between a jackrabbit and an antelope, the Packalope, Larry Primeau, wears a throwback Packers helmet with a ten-point deer rack attached. Citing a new policy on banned weapons, Lambeau Field officials have prohibited Primeau from wearing his antlers inside the stadium. Yet the foam Cheeseheads
remain. Their ability to poke your eyes out may not be as strong, but they are the key obstacle in the war against tacky.
Mr. and Mrs. Seahawk
—Notable wigged spousal members of the 12th Man, which is the oh-so-novel name the Seahawks fan base attaches to itself. Indeed, the happy couple was instrumental in helping to steal the name from Texas A&M.
Bill Swerski
—Sticklers for facts will point out that Swerski and his band of Bears superfans are not, in fact, real, but since when does reality have anything to do with football fandom? The
Saturday Night Live
caricature of sports fanaticism has done more to shape the archetype of crazed fan behavior than booze and bachelorhood combined.
The Bone Lady
—While there are any number of recognizable fans in Cleveland’s infamous Dawg Pound, including Big Dawg and Dawg Pound Mike, none of them are as chesty as the Bone Lady. Debra Darnell transforms herself into this near-superhuman figure for Browns games, replete with accessory laden beehive and cat glasses. The Bone Lady rides around in her tricked-out Bone Mobile, a Volvo station wagon that she has suffused in team memorabilia and to the roof of which she has added an eight-foot lighted bone. Quite an effort for an obvious double entendre.
Dolfan Denny
—Denny Sym began leading Miami crowds in cheers during the Dolphins’ first game in 1966. Ten years later, the owner asked him to become
the team’s official motivator for fifty dollars a game. You know it was a magical time, because that might have actually covered the cost of the ticket he bought to get in. Sym died in March 2007.
Crazy Ray
—Wilford Jones’s charming antics—along with his signature chaps, six-shooter, and blue vest—almost made you forget that Cowboys fans are by and large insufferable fuckwits. The sports world lost him a day after Dolfan Denny passed away.
Boltman
—Originally hired by the Chargers in 1995 as a mascot, the costumed character later broke with the team to do his own thing. Boltman wears a Chargers uniform over a muscle suit with an almost crescent-shaped bolt head and sunglasses, causing him to bear an amazing resemblance to ’80s McDonald’s pitch-moon Mac Tonight.
Arrowman
—Among a crowd of self-decribed superfans in Kansas City that includes First Down Elvis, Red Xtreme, Weirdwolf, XFactor, and Retro Fan, Arrowman dons a jersey and hat of the Chiefs’ opponent with an array of gag arrows shot through his head and torso. Because there’s no better way to stick it to another team than buying up their merchandise.
100 Percent Cheese-Free
—A friend to vegans and Packers haters everywhere, Sid Davy is a Vikings fan who lives in Winnipeg and commutes seven hours to each game at the Metrodome, where he dons a costume similar to a Norse version of Hulk Hogan, with purple face paint, chain mail, a Viking helmet, and
long, blond ponytails. True to his hulkish image, his biceps rival even those of Ed Hochuli, though he has a ways to go before he rivals Hochuli’s ability to blow plays dead prematurely. In 2008, Davy ventured all the way to Massachusetts to attend a Patriots-Broncos game so that he could reunite with his favorite player, Randy Moss, who was fond of jumping into Cheese-Free’s massive arms in the first row of the stands during his days in Minnesota. This despite the fact that Moss stopped playing for the Vikes four years earlier.
Darth Raider
—A fixture of the Black Hole in Oakland who wears a Darth Vader mask and some Legion of Doom–esque spiked shoulder pads. Really frightening until you realize it’s Hayden Christensen under the mask.
Fan Man
—One of those Ravens fans who adores purple camouflage pants, this one at least has the benefit of legacy on his side. Matt Andrews is the nephew of the best-known Baltimore Colts fan, “Willie the Rooter.” He converted a 1986 Astro van into the Fan Van by painting it purple, adding Ravens decals, and getting players and coaches to sign it at training camp. Knowing Baltimore, it’s held more than a few dead bodies in the back.