I always half-wished I could be that sports-savvy girl that can fiercely debate new player's potential, or roster picks, or the reason behind a team's dismal season, but I'm not. Might've helped me out behind the bar- but I told jokes instead. My mantra: "I love going to live sporting events, but I just can't watch it on TV. Wasn't really raised around it, never dated a 'sports guy'."
I'd say I was a teensy bit jealous of those with that passion, but it'd only be true if you included the 'teensy'. I never really got it. A dear and brilliant ex-boyfriend who was artsier and fartsier than I ever was, once spoke of his beloved basket ball crazed sister. The draw to sports fandom, he said, is for those who don't have their own passion. They need that brotherhood of fellow fans, in part because it replaces real connections they might otherwise have. But it's a false community. They don't play on the team, they don't benefit nor pay with any win or loss, and the emotion they feel with every season's pitch and point is yet another opiate of the masses. Not to say he didn't love sports- he was naturally athletic and generally pretty excellent in all those things. Despite his own sporty skills, we stood with cocked heads of confusion. Bewildered at the intensity of the draw for his sister shouting and sweating out her painful power claps when the Clippers or the Giants just did something good on the TV.
But when Tim, a quirky and contrary old regular of mine from KC Steakhouse invites me to join in on his season tickets for a his Alma Mater USC game and tailgating- I wholeheartedly take him up on his offer. Even if you don't watch the game, there's food! And drink! And happy (at least at first) crowds, and a fever pitch that is only come by when a mass gathers in consensus.
We meet at 6 am for the caravan to L.A. This is serious. Tailgating begins at 8-ish sharp-ish, with an entire tetris trunk packed full of Trojan tailgating gear, collected and perfected over decades.
Once the cardinal and gold tent, tablecloths, coordinating plates, and napkins, logo emblazoned BBQ, and greasy eats are out- the mimosa/bloody beer communion begins. Communion before ritual. Tim befriends the Boston College rivals on either side of us, and seals an invite to a local's tailgating party for his next away game visit. Illegal bacon-wrapped Mexican hot dog carts dart through crowds, avoiding officials, and generally smelling like a porky, onion orgasm.
The sense of community found at an event like this does warm the very cockles of my heart. After I mention this, Tim talks of visiting Lincoln, Nebraska for a game, and mixing with the locals at a tavern the night before. No trash-talk tossing between opponent fans was found that day; the gracious Nebraskans were welcoming, happy to have a like-minded stranger in their midst, no matter his team. When later in the night, one pimply kid did begin to slur some taunts Tim's way, a 97 year-old woman grabbed the kid by the shirt collar growling, "This is Nebraska. We don't treat our guests this way." I'm sure Nebraska's friendliness is an exception, but man, does this illustrate the intensity of what it is to represent a team. Maybe Raiders fans (Totally superfluous example. Maybe.), show their intensity in a culturally different manner, but none the less, what it means to rep your colors as a real fan is some serious shit, no matter the region.
A walk though the historical campus is like visiting the kingdom's royal courtyard during a festival. I feel the vibrations of Game Day in my gut. Like the excitement during a concert sound check, I prickle with goosebumps despite a slick forehead in the 90-something degree weather. This sense of pride is getting contagious. It's coming on. We stop to watch the USC marching band play a pre-game show, and I start feeling a vague ownership, a part of the rising synergy. I did play in the band. Brass even. And my high school mascot was the Trojan. Still, as I look at a fellow tailgater's USC flip flops and USC iPhone cover- I can't wrap my head around spending so much time and energy devoted to a game, that you're not even playing in. Plus, wearing sports logos isn't stylish. It offends my aesthetic senses. Says the girl in ragged Converse. Exiting the campus gates to cross the train tracks back to camp, Tim kicks the loose, aluminum base of a tall light pole. He shrugs, "Good luck," and smirks, "You'll hear it all day." Sure enough, waiting to cross the tracks I hear a metallic bang and rattle every 8 seconds, as students, alumni, faculty and devotees, kick, and maybe pray their way to the arena.
Packing up to head into the Colosseum- which doesn't serve alcohol- my good buddy Schub says we should have brought flasks. "No." Tim says. "That's for high school. If you can't drink enough to watch a game for a few hours, you're doing it wrong." Communion. Ritual. Music. Discipline.
Scholars argue which first preceded religion: music, or ritual, and I have personally always been in the music camp. There is something palpably powerful about rhythmic beats amongst a crowd. From the Pentecostal spirit-filled altar where I was raised, to the chanting mob- be it for revolution, lynching, or encore. This football game is no exception. I imagine ancient humans dancing around flames, feeling the percussion pounding their belly. And as the Trojan torch is lit, the drums of the fight song both threatening and triumphant, I see the Colosseum stands- masses of crimson- shifting in unison as they hammer their right hand forward to each beat in rows of gavels. Thousands chant the same chant, hammering that same arm, hoping the same, all in agreeance. I soak it up, getting high off the fumes of the dedicated. If I were at that Pentecostal alter, this is when the pastor would have said, 'Brothers and sisters- God is in this house tonight.'
Yeah, I watch the game too. I get those mini adrenaline rushes, just like every time I almost rear-end another car (which is sorta too often for a sorta grown-up)- where a prickly heat rushes to my skin- each time a pass is completed. Or even when it's not, really. Sometimes I forget about the players, and get caught up in the unity of the crowd, but I start to live and die a little each play.
This intox never lasts too long for me once I've gone home. A few days, max. Maybe that brilliant ex boyfriend iss a little right, in that the team brings a false connection to it's fans. A passion not backed by anything solid or real. But maybe that's what any decent opiate is. If it's an opiate that lets us feel, better to feel it with everyone else as a whole. A freaking cuddle puddle of team pride. And as for a false community- you bet your ass Tim is going to make some life-long buds in Boston over beer, brats, and a fight song of drums.
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