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.
V.9 Gamble, Because of Course You’re Smarter than Vegas
You don’t need me to tell you that gambling is the refuge of filthy degenerates, which explains why reasonable football fans gravitate to it so eagerly. Just as fantasy football heightens the importance of individual achievement, gambling ratchets up the significance of team effort, whether that be losing by no more than six points or helping to push the point total of the game above 42, thereby earning you a cool three grand and the chance to see your daughter again.
The NFL maintains an uneasy relationship with gambling. Seemingly every mainstream publication that covers the league prints the lines that Vegas gives on the games each week, as well as providing picks based on those spreads, yet includes the disclaimer that such odds are for recreational purposes only. Which is kind of like when Hollywood puts Jessica Alba in a movie and expects me not to jerk it in the theater. Why the hell else would I be there?
The government is no more receptive toward our yearning to worship at the altar of Gamblor, the six-penised polytheistic deity of wagering. Big Government makes it its business to quash every sports gambling opportunity that exists outside of Vegas, just because it’s a haven for organized crime, though certainly less of one than the underground structures that form in lieu of a legal betting system. Besides, hating the mafia is sheer lunacy, because there’s nothing Americans love more than organized crime, especially when its depicted in movies and TV shows. Just take the word of 49ers fans, all of whom would give their left one to get Eddie DeBartolo and the mob back in the front office.
By falling back on shoddy appeals to morality, the government’s stance on gambling makes as much sense as its war on drugs. It’s been estimated that the underground sports betting market in the United States hovers around $150 billion. Think of all that potential revenue squandered. It’s enough to turn people into libertarians, but then they’d have to agree with insufferably smug Bill Maher.
In fact, Montana, hardly a state known for its tilt toward innovation, has recently instituted an NFL-based fantasy football lottery game. Granted, along with Delaware, Nevada, and Oregon, it’s one of the four states where sports betting is legal, but this is still a daring step in the right direction. Naturally, the lottery game isn’t approved by the NFL, which should signal all the more that it’s something people will enjoy. Until legislators come to their senses (which is usually right around the time it becomes politically expedient to do so) football fans will be forced to keep alive hope that their credit card doesn’t get rejected by Bodog. The Nanny State and the NFL may tut-tut its existence, but people are going to find ways to gamble, like it or lump it. As for strategies, I’m no Brandon Lang. I don’t have the secrets to gambling success, other than that you should always bet against whichever team starts Rex Grossman at QB or has Marvin Lewis patrolling the sidelines. Also, stay away from road favorites in the playoffs. And I’m pretty sure wagering big on your favorite team is a money pit from which you’ll never escape. That said, sweeping secrets to gambling success are hard to come by, unless you pull a Biff from Back to the Future and swipe a sports almanac from a far-off year. The one nugget of advice is, don’t think you’re smarter than Vegas. Down this road of thought lies financial rack and ruin. If a spread looks ridiculous, it’s that way for a reason. After all, Vegas was built on compulsive types who thought they were smarter than Vegas. People like Charles Barkley.
V.10 Probably Should’ve Known Before You Bought Those Season Tickets: Watching a Game at Home Is Far Better than the Stadium Experience
For better or worse, we’ve entered a golden age for the couch potato. Gyrate your flabby appendages in celebration and count your blessings, if not the calories. Just as advances in home video technology have ruined much of the draw of heading to the multiplex, so too has the great leap forward in the fan experience for the homebody been brought about by the rise of the Internet and improvements to television broadcast production, which has coincided with how NFL owners have done everything in their power to ruin the live experience.
While seeing the game in a stadium packed to the gills with rabid fans is the purest and most glorious experience in fanhood, one must be prepared to stare down hours of traffic, fight with drunken assholes, pay impossibly high ticket and concession prices, accept poor sight lines, and endure Russian-breadline-like queues to the bathroom. And that’s before you get ejected because someone sque
aled on you to security for offending them by yelling that T.J. Houshmandzadeh is a rat-tailed queef goddess.
The dirty secret of fandom is that going to an NFL game can really suck ass sometimes, at least compared with the experience of watching from the comfort of your home or a good sports bar. It seems counterintuitive to those raised believing a seat in the stands beats a seat on the couch, but it’s true. And it’s doubly so if you’re a fan of a team that has decided to dump their stadium out in the middle of an inaccessible sprawly suburban hellhole or in New Jersey.
The advent of HDTV and satellite programming packages has made the difference all the more pronounced. What you see on your flat screen looks as good, if not better, than what your view would be from a $150 seat in the 500 Level, though seeing ESPN NFL reporter John Clayton in high definition has been known to result in irreparable orbital occlusion. Still, the advantages to home viewing are innumerable. At home, you can gorge on the finest in meats, libations, and Cheez Doodles without an inflated price or fourth-quarter liquor cutoff rules. You can make it to the bathroom during timeouts. You can totally whip it out and jerk it to cheerleaders without being arrested. It’s great.
One hitch in the deal is enduring the platitudinal ramblings of play-by-play announcers. Oh, Eli Manning is actually an ice water–veined field general, is he, Dierdorf? Mike Tomlin’s bravado just oozes out of him, does it? Philip Rivers hasn’t thrown a misplaced floating pass in his life? Die. They’re enough to make you jab stretched out paper clips into your eardrums. There are a number of potential solutions for negating their brain cramping prowess. For a local game, there’s the popular option of muting the TV while listening to the game commentary on the radio. Or one can ignore commentators altogether and watch the game while blasting your favorite music. Unless the dulcet tones of Cris Collinsworth’s nasally breakdown of a quarterback hitting the checkdown receiver is like birdsong to your tin ears, in which case you’re already fanatically bankrupt.
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