No Bandwagon Here

To ensure clarity, even for my non-American friends, for the purposes of this post when I say football I am referring to American football of the oblong ball-lots of pads- hit you on purpose-variety. When I say soccer I mean European football of the round ball- few pads- hit you not as much on purpose- variety. I would also like to preface, before loosing any of my not-interested-in-sports-readers, that I promise not to get all technical here; please bare with me.

What, another post already? I just barely got through your last thesis-sized one.

I know, but after the events of yesterday, I felt the need to share. So, gather ‘round close kids as I impart some words of non-importance.

Regardless of what message my current physique may send, I’ve been an athlete most of my life. I played baseball; I dabbled in basketball; I did track. As a kid I was an avid soccer player, at least until I was old enough to play football. Once I was, I never looked back. Sure, other sports co-existed, but they became just ways to past the time or stay in shape for football. Football was my athletic love and I was hooked. People often told me I had a football build, whatever that means; but I guess it was just meant to be.

When a friend of mine, gained later in life, learned this about me she said, “Oh God, you were one of those jerks on stage wearing a jersey during pep-rallies?” Yes, I was, although I was far from the stereotypical jock. I took advanced classes, specialized art courses, and was editor of the school paper. But, I think most importantly, I got along with pretty much everybody. Who I hung out with transcended groups or clicks.

So, where am I going with this? My only point is that I am a fan of football. Now that I no longer play (aside from the in-frequent pick-up game), I watch. Although here, also, I am slightly abnormal. I have friends who watch SportsCenter religiously. They know the outcome of every game, mainly since they watched most of them. They follow players from College into the NFL and know their history. One buddy of mine even remembers numbers (like phone numbers, etc) by relating them to player’s jersey numbers.

I am not this guy; never have been, never will be. I think for some guys this becomes a way of relating to their fathers early on. And since primarily my mother raised me when I was younger, I never felt this need. Of course that could just be the psychologist in me speaking, who knows for sure. I do know that when I’m in a group of guys and the topic changes to sports, I normally don’t contribute all that much. I know enough to play, teach others, and thoroughly enjoy any game. But when people start in with “Did you see Smith was traded to Denver? You know he ran 1,500 yards for USC right?” I turn to the nod and smile.

In fact, when it comes to football, there is only one team I watch: The Bengals. They are my hometown team and I have been rooting for them for as long as I can remember. Back in the days before Boomer wore a suit and just read from a teleprompter. Back when Icky was still doing his shuffle instead of selling carpet; when Anthony Munoz was crushing linemen instead of the competition in furniture sales.

The Bengals have not made it easy to be a fan of theirs over the years. They earned the nickname “Bungles” whole-heartedly for quite some time. I would make an effort to watch them each Sunday, though normally without much expectation. I learned early on not to become too emotionally attached. They were an unreliable mistress, and my heart had been broken many times. Still, I stuck around. No paper bag on my head, I openly rooted for my team.

“Daddy, The Bears aren’t even that good this year. Why is that man wearing their hat?”
“No, honey, that’s not a Bears’ B, that’s a Bengals’ B.”
“Who, Daddy?”

For years I asked for the team to give me something to cheer for. They didn’t need to be good, just don’t suck.

Now is a new day. Over the past few years the Bengals have taken a new turn. Suddenly it is cool to root for them. Their merchandise flies off shelves and it is trendy to wear one of their jerseys. The other day, while enjoying my lunch at a local sub-sandwich establishment, I overheard four teenage girls having an argument over who their favorite Bengal player was.

So, yesterday as I watched them loose for the second straight week (this time to the team they needed to beat to stay tied for first place) I realized that many a fan were sure to be crestfallen. “I thought they were supposed to be this powerhouse of a team. They just look average to me.” How quickly they forget that we are lucky just to have something to cheer for.

The moral of the story is this: don’t ride the bandwagon. Decide what you care about and stick by it. Even if it’s not popular at the time, stake your claim proudly. This can be applied to politics, relationships, any number of things. And who knows, with a little consistent support, even the underdog may surprise you.