The Stetson Curse
There’s only been one victim so far to fall prey to the Stetson Curse, but that victim was Tom Brady. Impressive, no? Brady first appeared in ads for the cologne in the fall of 2007. What happened? He went on to spoil a perfect season by losing Super Bowl XLII, only to have his ACL torn to ribbons the opening week of the following season. You might argue that one injury does not a curse make, but I’ll argue that anything that helps bring down Tom Brady is worthy of inclusion on a list of curses. Or even getting its own wing in Canton.
V.4 Tailgating Is the Pregame Alcohol-Based Ritual of Kings
Ah, the tailgate. A bacchanalia of brews and brats that forms one of the most enjoyable aspects of the gameday experience, so naturally the NFL is doing everything within its power to stamp it out cold. It’s not so much the gathering in the parking lot wearing team apparel part that league officials object to so much as the more central tailgating practice of eating your weight in Polish sausage and drinking yourself blind well before kickoff. That cuts into concession sales and makes for liability issues when people’s cars get torched from parking over hot coals.
The modern incarnation of tailgating forms a convivial tableau, where thousands of people convene in a multitude of intermingling picniclike environments around their cars to eat, drink, socialize, toss the ball around, drink more, talk shit to fans of the opposing team, drink, smoke, play flipcup, drink while watching other people play flipcup, get asked to play cornhole, wonder aloud what cornhole is, give cornhole a shot and decide you kind of like it but could do without it, warble through team anthems, stand in line to piss for what seems like forever, drink while staring blankly at the asphalt, take a Jell-O shot, puke and rally, make out with random strangers, drink, and pass out. It’s basically college in a parking lot.
There are forces that want to rob fans of the debauched pregame antics they automatically associate with a day of football. Indeed, the insidious fan conduct policy implemented in 2008 doesn’t merely cover in-stadium behavior, but encompasses the parking lot surrounding the stadium. It may be nearly impossible to enforce in all cases, but it gives security officials free rein to get up in your business and ruin the fun. In that way, it’s very similar to the Patriot Act, only possibly even more vaguely worded and invasive.
There are more distressing signs in the war on tailgating. Parking fees continue to climb, and while stadia increase in seating capacity, their parking lot sizes remain static, forcing tailgates into cheek by jowl positioning. In 2007, the company that owns a parking lot Seahawks fans had dubbed Hawk Heaven turned away tailgaters for a week. When an outcry by fans ensued, the company reversed its position, saying it would allow tailgaters, but no alcohol consumption, which is sort of like allowing Christmas without the rampant commercialism.
Tailgating was banned outside Super Bowl XLI in Miami, with officials citing suspect security reasons, and the policy was extended the following year at Super Bowl XLII in Arizona. It’s a ridiculous about-face, of course, but one that rings all too familiar in the Roger Goodell era. Why has the NFL turned on something that has always been an integral part of its lifeblood? In the hopes of appearing palatable to some rare, possibly nonexistent breed of football fan that hates cursing, doesn’t drink, abhors violence, and wants to worship at the puritanical altar of The Game as if it were a sort of state-run religion. I’m sure Kurt Warner loves that new direction. The rest of us just want to get sloppy and have a good time.
V.4. A AVOID TAILGATING SCENESTERS
Tailgating, as activities that involve alcohol usually do, has transformed into something of a subculture. There are those who travel the country only to experience the different tailgate scenes at any number of NFL and college football stadia or NASCAR tracks. Certainly these people cannot be blamed for embracing the boozier aspects of the fan experience, but many of them don’t attend the events these tailgates surround and have no interest in their outcomes. Which is bizarre and borderline parasitic.
Beware these tailgating scenesters. Though they attempt to earn your trust with an array of interesting recipes and odd novelty gadgets that have no application outside a tailgate, they are roving partiers and nothing more. Instead of talking about the game, arguing about the game, or even letting you know what kind of vested fantasy interests they have in the players involved, they want to gush about how tailgating is the last great bastion of community or some such nonsense. And that shit sucks out loud. If you want a false sense of togetherness with your intoxication, go to goddamn Burning Man.
A man named Joe Cahn has garnered national attention for claiming the mantle of the Commissioner of Tailgating, which is a bit like bearing the title Picnicmaster General. Cahn, who maintains a Web site that promotes tailgating culture and claims to be the world’s only professional tailgater, has visited hundreds of stadia and sports complexes and partied with thousands of revelers. While tailgating is a fine slice of Americana and we’re glad someone is out there documenting its regional variations with the painstaking diligence of an ethnomusicologist, we generally want to be around people who are into the game. Granted foodies and lushes can come in handy by improving the quality of the meats and liquor you stuff your face with, but the last thing anyone wants is some windbag blubbering about the sense of kinship he feels with his common man while you’re trying to make a critical beer pong shot. Don’t get all whimsical on me while I’m trying to get a buzz going.
V.4. B TAILGATING GRUB: MEAT, MEAT, MORE MEAT, WASH DOWN WITH BEER, REPEAT WITH MEAT
Not ingesting your weight in nitrates at the tailgate? That’s a monstrous failure on your part. And not the heart failure that you should be encouraging. The staple of any tailgate is the fatty amalgam of wings, sausage, bacon, brats, beef patties, and any other assorted heart-clogging chunks of fatty flesh. There are those who clamor for vegetarian alternatives at the tailgate. There’s no need to impose tofu dogs on those who don’t consume them, so bring and cook your own veggie shit on the grill. And when you’re dealing in things like wings, the less cutesy you get, the better. The buffalo wing is always a standard. Supplementing it with some fancy-dancy garlic parmesan or spicy Asian wings is well and good for the sake of variety, but these should by no means supplant the buffalo ones.
Most any combination of tasty meats and boozy drinks will serve you well when pregaming, though the fan should be encouraging to dabble in some of the expert creations the wild minds of expert tailgating are apt to create. A recent runaway phenomenon in tailgating circles is a dish known as Bacon Explosion, which combines two pounds of bacon and two pounds of sausage into one delectable artery-exploding log. Get someone to whip this up for your crew and you’ll be set for a day. Provided there’s enough refreshment to keep you tanked from arrival to the stadium walk-up.
V.5 Get Pumped for Victory in the Game You’re Not Playing
This is football. It’s no time for easy listening. You can play it mellow when gorging through the tailgate in hour one, but as kickoff approaches, you’ve got to get ready to spit hot fire. That means no techno, screamo, emo, jazz, classical, calypso, world music, ska, house, reggae, reggaeton, backpacker rap, pop punk, indie rock, or any of the other twee shit you’ll hear on a Sufjan Stevens or a Belle and Sebastian album.
It’s time for some auditory abuse that will knock you on your ass and take an asparagus-scented piss in your face. Having listened to these tracks, you’ll be ready to dropkick an opposing linebacker 20 yards downfield.
Let’s not confuse these with the raft of tracks that blare out of the stadium sound system. “Crazy Train” by Ozzy, AC/DC tracks, or “Rock and Roll Part Two”: these are far too commonplace to make it to your unique motivational playlist. Can’t have others horning in on that. You need to know that you’re not getting fed the same call to arms as every other schlub out there. Yours is singularly vicious. So here goes.
“Ante Up,” M.O.P.—Consider this a check of your pulse. Not moving after this song means rigor mort
is has set in and you belong deep, deep underground. Necrophiles patrol tailgates just to see who isn’t responding to this track.
“Enter Sandman,” Metallica—A sports pregame standby, but a classic for a reason. Granted, Metallica has largely been a pailful of suck for the better part of fifteen years, but this one maintains its motivational oomph, meaning it’ll make you take a long jump between rooftops.
“Self Defense,” Dilated Peoples—A song with a refrain that goes “You wanna hit us? We can hit back” and lyrics that include the reminder that “the best offense is a good defense” is clearly of relevance to a football crowd, even if what they’re hitting each other with are gusts of flatus.
“What’s My Name,” DMX—Fiery and profane, and hence everything a fan can want in a song. What’s more, Russell Simmons’s doglike growls will make you feel like you’re coming out of the tunnel with Joey Porter’s pit bulls.
“Rise Above,” Black Flag—Appropriating the fury of a song aimed at the conformist elements of society and then channeling it into emotional energy for a sports contest is what fans do best. Who cares what message anyone is trying to send out? The emotion is the point. And all the angry lyrics can be made to fit in a football context with enough booze.
“Protect Ya Neck,” Wu-Tang Clan—More a helpful suggestion than a motivational tune. Maybe you can wear a Bryan Cox–like stiff neck collar under your uniform.
“Above the Clouds,” Gang Starr—Among the pulsating tracks of venom, something a little more contemplative is in order. Lest you think that will make you go soft, Inspectah Deck’s verse coupled with the Asiatic beats will make you want to lop enemy appendages off with Hitori Hanzo steel.
The last minute of Radiohead’s “Electioneering” and the last two minutes of Guns N’ Roses’ “Paradise City”—Otherwise calm songs erupt in cacophonous mania, which is a perfect soundtrack to the anarchy you want to spill out into your gameday experience. These are great stretches of music to swing an unearthed security bollard to.
“Bodies,” Drowning Pool—Are you a meathead in search of lifeless corpses falling to the ground with a thudding intensity? Then this might be just the kind of barking metal song you’re looking for. Don’t worry if you don’t know any of the lyrics beyond “LET THE BODIES HIT THE FLO’!!” No one else does either.
“Lose Yourself,” Eminem—Positively ubiquitous in the first few months following its release in 2002, this throbbing army march is enough to make you believe you’re a desperate, destitute man fighting for his life, rather than a guy dropping thousands of dollars on season tickets.
“Play,” David Banner—Not much point in an event teeming with pleas for ritualistic violence without a celebration of violent sexual encounters. If nearby women object, swear that the line “catch it in your mouth like your last name Moss” made you believe the song was about football.
“Bombs over Baghdad,” Outkast—Because it’s a catchy, energetic Outkast song that isn’t “Hey Ya!” That alone will suffice.
“The Champ,” Ghostface Killah—Clever lyricism is never more palatable to the football fan (especially the white one) than when it’s packaged in a swaggering paean to kicking ass.
“Guerilla Radio,” Rage Against the Machine—Need that final rush to get you ready to charge into the stadium and take the concession guy by the balls? Look no further. The final part of the song begins with a whispery Zack de la Rocha intoning, “It has to start somewhere. It has to start sometime. What better place than here? What better time than now?” Fuck and yes.
V.6 The High Five Is an Intricate Art Not to Be Toyed With
The purest expression of football fan exultation, save perhaps a belligerent flipping of the bird to an opposing fan, is the high five. It is a maneuver steeped in tradition, reeking of valor, and one that should not be overused or executed improperly. For any gesture so laden with import, some simple guidelines must be adhered to at all times. It may seem like a casual thing, this smacking of palms, but violate one of the hard-and-fast rules and the consequences could be dire.
Timing, as is often the case, is everything. Note that acceptable high-five-able scenarios are as follows:
When your favorite team scores a touchdown or gets a pivotal third-down stop.
When a fellow fan recounts how he hooked up with a girl from the bar (bonus five if she roots for your team).
When someone on your fantasy team gets a big gain or a score and another person nearby is also starting that player. (Presumably you’ve let everyone within ear-shot know which players you’re starting in any given week.) The five is rescinded if that player is going against your favorite team. Why are you starting him, anyway?
Field goals and sacks, while not always sufficient to produce a high five, can be determined acceptable on a case-by-case basis. A game-winning field goal? Go for it. Settling for a field goal when down by two touchdowns? Not so much.
When fiving in a bar or stadium, engaging in one five necessitates that you do the same for all adjacent fans of your team. It’s like a toast in that sense. Leaving someone hanging is extremely poor form and will likely leave you subject to a similar snubbing following the next score. Given the sensitivity of Seahawks fans, this might draw tears.
An opposing fan may be issued a five if it is done as a means of distraction while a fellow fan ties his shoes together or steals his wallet.
The Classic
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.
The Football Fan's Manifesto Page 10