The NFL football season started last Sunday and, frankly, Scarlett, I don't give a damn. I started losing interest in pro football about a decade ago. The players seemed to become more intense and increasingly cartoonish with their histrionics in the end zone and the manner in a tackle has to completely demolish the other guy. Admittedly, American society has gotten much darker and sinister, which explains why football is now so revered in this country.
But my ambivalence wasn't always like this. Back when I was a kid, I wandered from baseball to football as soon as the leaves started to become a crispy gold and brown. I think this pleased my father who was a big fan.
Now, in those days, pro football wasn't much of a sport you could watch on television. Well, the road games of your favorite team were televised. But blackout rules prevailed and any home games were not shown. You had to listen to them on...gasp...the radio. Or, if you lived in New York, you drove up to Connecticut and, provided you were close enough to the Hartford-New Haven TV market, you watched games there. Some pulled up bar stools. Others actually rented motel rooms to see their beloved Jets and Giants. Hopefully, the sheets cooled off after a robust Saturday night.
As for my house, my first foray into football fandom was for the Jets as I was again adopting the allegiance of the new kids in town. I remember my dad always listening to the New York Giant games on WNEW AM Radio, but, just as he with baseball, he gravitated to my team as well. Fathers make those kinds of sacrifices. Plus I previously have written about the year I spent going to Jet games at Shea Stadium with my mom's boss and her boyfriend, who were season ticket holders. So, I suppose that I was a major part of the Jet faithful.
But, almost as soon as I became a Jet fan, they won the Super Bowl and they got a little boring as a result. Of course, at the time, nobody knew that they wouldn't get another shot at it for the next two centuries. So, my love for a football team wasn't as deep as it was for the New York Mets. I could be easily pulled away.
Back in the day, it was virtually impossible to get tickets to New York Giant football games. Most of the patrons were season ticket holders since the 1800s and seat plans were often included in last wills and testaments. There were 60,000 privileged people every Sunday who got to enter their then-home of Yankee Stadium.
The prospect of going to a New York Giant game was about as alien to me as a trip to the Moon. And, hell, there were people going there back then. So, you can imagine my surprise when, on one September Saturday, I got a call from my best friend at school, Danny.
"A guy my dad knows is offering us his two season tickets for tomorrow's Giant game."
Huh?
I never turned down any invitations to any sporting event at that age. And, since my friends and I were already well versed in traveling to Shea and Yankee Stadium by ourselves, I didn't foresee any parental opposition.
Surprise. My dad, who probably had never been to a Giant football game himself, was a bit defensive. And probably a little bit envious.
"What do you want to go down there for? A lot of nuts in that place."
Well, yeah. So?
"It's too damn crowded. You'll get lost."
Well, maybe. So?
"Lots of traffic down there. The two of you will get clipped."
I doubt it. So?
But, as most fathers always do, my dad caved in. As long as he could orchestrate the whole day. He'd drive me and Danny to the Jerome Avenue subway train which would let us off right in from of the stadium. He'd listen to the game and then time our return home and wait for us at the train station.
And so he did.
Meanwhile, Danny and I walked into that stadium like kings on that Sunday. We felt like we belonged to the most elite group in the world. The seats sucked. Actually, the view at the top of this blog was pretty much our POV. But, we didn't care. And we rooted for the home team because, heck, everybody around us had owned their season tickets the turn of the century.
Yes, we became Giant fans. And, you can imagine our euphoria when Danny got the call one Saturday later about tickets to the very next game.
As it turns out, because the season ticket owner was having some business issues, we got to go to four of the seven home games that year. He let us know on Saturday and, when the call came, we were delirious. It was great. We started to be on a first-name basis with the folks around us. And my father's transport service and our Sunday schedule became almost robotic.
These days, football teams can make the playoffs if they score more than three touchdowns all season. But, back then, it was a more prestigious group that moved forward. And the Giants had to win on the last home Sunday to go into the playoffs. This was the game everybody in town was talking about.
Danny and I waited eagerly for the Saturday call. That never came.
Now, I was desperate to see this damn game. So, I really pushed the envelope with my father.
I suggested we drive to Connecticut and find a motel or bar that was airing the game.
"What are you, some kind of nut??"
I listened on the radio. The Giants lost. They didn't make the playoffs.
And, since there were never any tickets in any subsequent year, my Giant fan days were done.
Dinner last night: Bacon and cheddar cheese frittata.
No comments:
Post a Comment