The Football Fan's Manifesto (26 page)

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 passing. 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.

Passing off season tickets to a next of kin is the most significant of these considerations. For some, this decision is made easy by circumstance. 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 hellions. Which one of them demonstrated more zeal for the team? Which one accompanied you to games with the express purpose of driving your drunk ass 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 competition 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 pussies 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 passing. 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 carcass 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 passed 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 Massachusetts 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 anal 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 bitter
sweet 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 hell 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. Massive 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 asswipe 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 hell, they’d be awfully depressed, what with the absence of space 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 screwing all the time. It’s gross.

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

The cliché goes that men lead lives of quiet desperation. Had Thoreau 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 bitch.

In spite of crass 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 porn. 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 passion 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 blow job. 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.