Thursday, October 22, 2009
Also my favorite video so far...
http://www.nfl.com/videos/nfl-game-highlights/09000d5d81384347/The-12th-man-bird
Sunday, October 11, 2009
I know it's not a popular opinion, but it's a GAME FOR CHILDREN
Thursday I traveled to Anaheim and attended game two of the ALDS featuring the Angels against the Red Sox. To my great shock, the Sox losing and falling behind 0-2 was the only second worst aspect of the evening. The first was the knowledge that my husband is going to have to wait a very long time to share his passion for live baseball games with whatever child we might eventually have.
You can’t take a kid to these games. I’d rather my small child happen upon the raunchiest issue of Maxim in existence than sit through three hours of the atmosphere of Thursday’s game. And that’s saying something, because I went to a women’s college.
I’m tagging along on this particular baseball outing with three die-hard Red Sox fans. But really, you wouldn’t know their devotion to the team by looking at them. One is wearing an understated Red Sox t-shirt. One is wearing normal street clothes and a Red Sox hat. Mike is the most ostentatious, but that just involves a Boston away jersey and a cap. I’m not wearing any team insignia, because I’m still sore that my team was out of contention back in August. No one is wearing a deliberately exacerbatory t-shirt, no one has their face painted. We’re there to respectfully (but still enthusiastically) watch our team play as visitors.
We pile out of our cars and the first Angels’ fan we see is wearing is a t-shirt proclaiming “BOSTON SUCKS.” Bracketing the fact that we’re reading this indictment of another city in ANAHEIM, is it really necessary to dump on an ENTIRE CITY (especially one with the significance Boston holds in the American cultural landscape) because of a BASEBALL RIVALRY?
A member of our party calls the woman wearing the shirt out, saying, “You guys are REALLY original.” The woman is gracious, laughs, and wishes us luck. That was the last positive encounter we had that evening.
I get it, I swear. The Angels and the Red Sox seem to meet all the time in the post-season, and up to this point, the Angels haven’t been able to do much against the Sox. It’s no fun being the underdog. I understand this. I root for the Houston Astros, for god’s sake. Add to that situation the fact that Boston fans are like locusts that devour ballparks everywhere, and resentment is understandable. In fact, it’s expected.
But we have left resentment far behind. Thursday, I thought we’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in the Gaza Strip. Sox vs. Angels has turned into a religious war featuring zealots clinging to territory for dear life.
I know that the “Yankees Suck!” cheer is as Boston as, well, Cheers. But it’s always made me a little uncomfortable. I know that sounds prudish, but I expect a little bit more from the great American pastime. We make our kids play Little League, knowing full well that for 99% of them, the ability to throw and catch a ball and run the bases is going to make no discernible difference in the course of their lives. Instead, we attach importance to Little League to teach them about being part of something, about playing well with others. They learn that being a sore winner or loser doesn’t change how the game turned out. In the microcosm of Little League, kids learn that life is full of wins and losses, and regardless, you keep playing.
I just don’t know how kids are supposed to absorb these things when they to watch adults fail to model that behavior at a game they’re not evening playing.
But like I said, in Anaheim, we’re way past chanting that the other team sucks.
Mike and I have to get up in the fourth inning. We observe an Angels fan wearing a “F*** Boston” (expletive censored by me, not him) t-shirt screaming at a Red Sox fan, “You can’t come to our house and root against our team!” [The Angels make the same percentage off tickets sold to Red Sox fans.] On the way back to our seats, a collection of Angels fans that were big enough to know that they’re intimidating point at Mike and start booing as we ascend the stairs. Once the Angels have a definitive lead, the overgrown frat boy I have the misfortune of sitting next to starts screaming “F*** Boston,” until he’s hoarse. Once he gets bored with idly shouting vulgarity into the stadium, he cups his hands around his mouth and starts yelling it in my ear. Then he starts yelling “Carpetbaggers go home!” I wasn’t expecting much out of this guy, but really?! Reconstruction after the bloodiest conflict on our nation’s soil?! Dude, IT’S A BASEBALL GAME! [And that reaction brackets the obvious historical inaccuracy—again, not expecting much out of this guy].
The Sox lose, and as we’re leaving, some fans (who also are big enough to know that they’re intimidating) hang over the walkway and scream at us, “Where ya going, Sox Fans?!”
I’m way past uncomfortable at this point. Tensions are high, and there are big, aggressive guys who are really drunk. I’m with three big guys who I know wouldn’t let anything happen to me, but I really don’t want it to come to that.
We walk down the many stories of ramps that lead down to the parking lot. The exiting crowd is in a frenzy, yelling, “BOSTON SUCKS!” at the top of their lungs. As this park is the very same one where, a few years ago, we sat in front of a dad, thrilled at the prospect of teaching his sons baseball, responded to a “Red Sox Suck!” chant by saying to his kids, “Don’t ever let me hear you say that. That attitude is what sucks,” I’m confused. I ask Mike, referencing the most intense baseball rivalry I know, “Are Yankees fans this bad?” “Not nearly,” he responds.
And then I see her. A little girl, about five, riding on her dad’s shoulders. Her parents look terrified and are obviously trying to get out of the park as fast as they safely can.
“You can’t take a kid to see a baseball game anymore,” I remark to Mike.
“No kidding,” he says. “There’s no way to explain to them that they can’t act like this at their Little League game.”
I know the multi-million dollar contracts and obscene ticket prices are confusing the issue a bit, but you know what? Baseball is a kid’s game. And as much as the sports enthusiast gene may have skipped me individually, I believe that the subculture has value in our nation. But you know what? My kids may wait a really long time to experience a really important milestone in that subculture—the first live game. It would be irresponsible parenting to expose a kid, that’s still modeling the behavior s/he experiences in the adult world, to this level of interpersonal violence. And that’s just sad.
You can’t take a kid to these games. I’d rather my small child happen upon the raunchiest issue of Maxim in existence than sit through three hours of the atmosphere of Thursday’s game. And that’s saying something, because I went to a women’s college.
I’m tagging along on this particular baseball outing with three die-hard Red Sox fans. But really, you wouldn’t know their devotion to the team by looking at them. One is wearing an understated Red Sox t-shirt. One is wearing normal street clothes and a Red Sox hat. Mike is the most ostentatious, but that just involves a Boston away jersey and a cap. I’m not wearing any team insignia, because I’m still sore that my team was out of contention back in August. No one is wearing a deliberately exacerbatory t-shirt, no one has their face painted. We’re there to respectfully (but still enthusiastically) watch our team play as visitors.
We pile out of our cars and the first Angels’ fan we see is wearing is a t-shirt proclaiming “BOSTON SUCKS.” Bracketing the fact that we’re reading this indictment of another city in ANAHEIM, is it really necessary to dump on an ENTIRE CITY (especially one with the significance Boston holds in the American cultural landscape) because of a BASEBALL RIVALRY?
A member of our party calls the woman wearing the shirt out, saying, “You guys are REALLY original.” The woman is gracious, laughs, and wishes us luck. That was the last positive encounter we had that evening.
I get it, I swear. The Angels and the Red Sox seem to meet all the time in the post-season, and up to this point, the Angels haven’t been able to do much against the Sox. It’s no fun being the underdog. I understand this. I root for the Houston Astros, for god’s sake. Add to that situation the fact that Boston fans are like locusts that devour ballparks everywhere, and resentment is understandable. In fact, it’s expected.
But we have left resentment far behind. Thursday, I thought we’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in the Gaza Strip. Sox vs. Angels has turned into a religious war featuring zealots clinging to territory for dear life.
I know that the “Yankees Suck!” cheer is as Boston as, well, Cheers. But it’s always made me a little uncomfortable. I know that sounds prudish, but I expect a little bit more from the great American pastime. We make our kids play Little League, knowing full well that for 99% of them, the ability to throw and catch a ball and run the bases is going to make no discernible difference in the course of their lives. Instead, we attach importance to Little League to teach them about being part of something, about playing well with others. They learn that being a sore winner or loser doesn’t change how the game turned out. In the microcosm of Little League, kids learn that life is full of wins and losses, and regardless, you keep playing.
I just don’t know how kids are supposed to absorb these things when they to watch adults fail to model that behavior at a game they’re not evening playing.
But like I said, in Anaheim, we’re way past chanting that the other team sucks.
Mike and I have to get up in the fourth inning. We observe an Angels fan wearing a “F*** Boston” (expletive censored by me, not him) t-shirt screaming at a Red Sox fan, “You can’t come to our house and root against our team!” [The Angels make the same percentage off tickets sold to Red Sox fans.] On the way back to our seats, a collection of Angels fans that were big enough to know that they’re intimidating point at Mike and start booing as we ascend the stairs. Once the Angels have a definitive lead, the overgrown frat boy I have the misfortune of sitting next to starts screaming “F*** Boston,” until he’s hoarse. Once he gets bored with idly shouting vulgarity into the stadium, he cups his hands around his mouth and starts yelling it in my ear. Then he starts yelling “Carpetbaggers go home!” I wasn’t expecting much out of this guy, but really?! Reconstruction after the bloodiest conflict on our nation’s soil?! Dude, IT’S A BASEBALL GAME! [And that reaction brackets the obvious historical inaccuracy—again, not expecting much out of this guy].
The Sox lose, and as we’re leaving, some fans (who also are big enough to know that they’re intimidating) hang over the walkway and scream at us, “Where ya going, Sox Fans?!”
I’m way past uncomfortable at this point. Tensions are high, and there are big, aggressive guys who are really drunk. I’m with three big guys who I know wouldn’t let anything happen to me, but I really don’t want it to come to that.
We walk down the many stories of ramps that lead down to the parking lot. The exiting crowd is in a frenzy, yelling, “BOSTON SUCKS!” at the top of their lungs. As this park is the very same one where, a few years ago, we sat in front of a dad, thrilled at the prospect of teaching his sons baseball, responded to a “Red Sox Suck!” chant by saying to his kids, “Don’t ever let me hear you say that. That attitude is what sucks,” I’m confused. I ask Mike, referencing the most intense baseball rivalry I know, “Are Yankees fans this bad?” “Not nearly,” he responds.
And then I see her. A little girl, about five, riding on her dad’s shoulders. Her parents look terrified and are obviously trying to get out of the park as fast as they safely can.
“You can’t take a kid to see a baseball game anymore,” I remark to Mike.
“No kidding,” he says. “There’s no way to explain to them that they can’t act like this at their Little League game.”
I know the multi-million dollar contracts and obscene ticket prices are confusing the issue a bit, but you know what? Baseball is a kid’s game. And as much as the sports enthusiast gene may have skipped me individually, I believe that the subculture has value in our nation. But you know what? My kids may wait a really long time to experience a really important milestone in that subculture—the first live game. It would be irresponsible parenting to expose a kid, that’s still modeling the behavior s/he experiences in the adult world, to this level of interpersonal violence. And that’s just sad.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Maiden Voyage
The day Mike waits for around eight months of the year finally arrived on Monday: The New England Patriots’ first game of the season. He has to work late, so the game has been dutifully programmed into the DVR and all communication with the outside world is to cease until he too knows the outcome. The delay gives me a good opportunity to watch the first few plays with rewinding and pausing as I try desperately to see the movements Mike has patiently diagrammed for me in the previous weeks. I’m pretty pleased with myself for the first two and a half minutes of play: I see that the Patriots win the coin toss and decide to receive first. I can tell that the 50 yard return they make once they catch the ball is an impressive play. I see that they fail to advance 10 yards in four downs, turning the ball over to the Buffalo Bills.
Then a flag gets thrown on the field. I rewind to the beginning and wait for Mike.
Several hours later, I’ve got two pages of notes. I’m not understanding anymore and I’m bored. To top it off, we’re in the last five minutes of play and the Patriots are losing. Tom Brady, the Patriots quarterback that was out last season, is playing his first game in a year and the announcers aren’t impressed. There are a few calls that have Mike screaming “Bullshit!” at the TV. He’s swearing at some fantasy football move he made under the advice of a friend. He’s fast-forwarding through a lot of the Bills’ action. It’s turning into a long night.
With 2:10 remaining, the Patriots are trailing by 11 and are 18 yards from the endzone (which I’ve learned can also be described as “On the Bills’ 18”). A tight end, #84 Benjamin Watson who apparently narrowly avoided the cut to make this year’s team, got himself wide open in the end zone to catch a pass from Brady. Touchdown. Patriots trail by 5. They go for the two-point conversion (remember, that’s the line of scrimmage that forms at the second yard line after a touchdown is scored—the scoring team gets one down to get the ball back into the endzone). They fail. They need another touchdown.
Me: Why didn’t they kick the field goal?
Mike: Because a four point deficit wouldn’t have made a difference. They still would have needed a touchdown. But if they’d gotten the two-point conversion, they’d have only been trailing by 3 points. A field goal would have tied the game.
Field goal. As far as I know, that’s the thing that follows a touchdown. Apparently it can be something else, too. Of course it can. Apparently, if it’s fourth down and you have more than a yard or two to go to meet your 10 yard requirement, and the ball is currently within the other team’s 35 yard line, you can opt to kick a field goal, which is worth 3 points. Field goals are also a strategic move when there is not a lot of time left in game play and the offense needs 3 or fewer points to win or tie (as in this case). Still a third scenario—it’s overtime, which Carlin reminded us is “sudden death,” and any points win the game.
But all of that is irrelevant now, because the Patriots still trail by 5 and have to kick to the Bills. The kicker drills one into their endzone—Leodis McKelvin of the Bills catches it and tries to run with it. The guy with the ball is hit by safety Brandon Merriweather, who hits at the ball, trying to get McKelvin to drop it. Merriweather is joined in this effort by linebacker Pierre Woods. McKelvin drops the ball and a giant pile of football players forms. Mike stands up and yells “YES!!!”
When it seems safe to interrupt, I grab the remote and pause the recording. “What the hell just happened?”
Apparently, it’s the best possible scenario for the Patriots. Merriweather and Woods have caused a fumble. When the ball is dropped before the player with the ball is tackled, it’s a fumble. In a fumble situation, whoever gets the ball keeps the ball—hence the giant dog pile. When they pulled everyone apart, Patriots kicker Stephen Gostkowski had the ball, so the Patriots get to keep the ball 31 yards from the Bills’ endzone with around two minutes to score a touchdown.
They score. They fail at the two-point conversion, but that’s okay because the Bills don’t manage to get in range to kick a field goal. The Patriots win by one. The evening is salvaged.
Then a flag gets thrown on the field. I rewind to the beginning and wait for Mike.
Several hours later, I’ve got two pages of notes. I’m not understanding anymore and I’m bored. To top it off, we’re in the last five minutes of play and the Patriots are losing. Tom Brady, the Patriots quarterback that was out last season, is playing his first game in a year and the announcers aren’t impressed. There are a few calls that have Mike screaming “Bullshit!” at the TV. He’s swearing at some fantasy football move he made under the advice of a friend. He’s fast-forwarding through a lot of the Bills’ action. It’s turning into a long night.
With 2:10 remaining, the Patriots are trailing by 11 and are 18 yards from the endzone (which I’ve learned can also be described as “On the Bills’ 18”). A tight end, #84 Benjamin Watson who apparently narrowly avoided the cut to make this year’s team, got himself wide open in the end zone to catch a pass from Brady. Touchdown. Patriots trail by 5. They go for the two-point conversion (remember, that’s the line of scrimmage that forms at the second yard line after a touchdown is scored—the scoring team gets one down to get the ball back into the endzone). They fail. They need another touchdown.
Me: Why didn’t they kick the field goal?
Mike: Because a four point deficit wouldn’t have made a difference. They still would have needed a touchdown. But if they’d gotten the two-point conversion, they’d have only been trailing by 3 points. A field goal would have tied the game.
Field goal. As far as I know, that’s the thing that follows a touchdown. Apparently it can be something else, too. Of course it can. Apparently, if it’s fourth down and you have more than a yard or two to go to meet your 10 yard requirement, and the ball is currently within the other team’s 35 yard line, you can opt to kick a field goal, which is worth 3 points. Field goals are also a strategic move when there is not a lot of time left in game play and the offense needs 3 or fewer points to win or tie (as in this case). Still a third scenario—it’s overtime, which Carlin reminded us is “sudden death,” and any points win the game.
But all of that is irrelevant now, because the Patriots still trail by 5 and have to kick to the Bills. The kicker drills one into their endzone—Leodis McKelvin of the Bills catches it and tries to run with it. The guy with the ball is hit by safety Brandon Merriweather, who hits at the ball, trying to get McKelvin to drop it. Merriweather is joined in this effort by linebacker Pierre Woods. McKelvin drops the ball and a giant pile of football players forms. Mike stands up and yells “YES!!!”
When it seems safe to interrupt, I grab the remote and pause the recording. “What the hell just happened?”
Apparently, it’s the best possible scenario for the Patriots. Merriweather and Woods have caused a fumble. When the ball is dropped before the player with the ball is tackled, it’s a fumble. In a fumble situation, whoever gets the ball keeps the ball—hence the giant dog pile. When they pulled everyone apart, Patriots kicker Stephen Gostkowski had the ball, so the Patriots get to keep the ball 31 yards from the Bills’ endzone with around two minutes to score a touchdown.
They score. They fail at the two-point conversion, but that’s okay because the Bills don’t manage to get in range to kick a field goal. The Patriots win by one. The evening is salvaged.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Carlin Always Deserves His Own Post
I completely forgot about this clip--thanks for the reminder, Paul! And this time, I actually understood most of it!
We miss you, Carlin!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Down for the count...
Alright, so now I know that a football offense uses either a running or passing play to try to advance. Which brings us to a pretty critical question: how do you score?
The snippets of football games I’ve seen when I haven’t been loudly acting out in frustration have featured phrases like “First and ten.” A lot. Today I learned that’s because those numbers describe the primary motion for scoring in football. The first number, which will be “first,” “second,” “third,” or “fourth,” tells everyone what “down” we’re on. A “down,” Mike tells me, is a chance to make it ten yards. You get four chances. If you don’t make it, the other team gets the ball.
We do this ten yards at a time? When the field is 100 yards long? No wonder this game has been excruciating to watch!
That piece of bad news has already tipped me off as to what the second number does: it tells everyone how many yards the team has to go before they reach the ten yard requirement to keep the ball.
Mike tells me that once I understand how the game works, things will move much faster. He really wants me to succeed at this little project. I married a good guy. He really wants to include me in this thing that monopolizes his evenings.
So as long as you make it ten yards in four tries, you get to keep trying to inch your way down to the other team’s endzone to score a touchdown. You can either carry a ball into the endzone, or you can throw it to one of your teammates that is already standing in the endzone. A touchdown is worth six points. After a touchdown is scored, a line of scrimmage forms on the second yard line. The scoring team gets one down (one chance, remember) to either carry the ball back into the endzone for two points (a two-point conversion) or kick a field goal for one point.
I was really starting to wonder what purpose those giant yellow u-shaped things at both ends of the field served. To successfully kick a field goal, ya gotta get the ball in the u.
Mike tells me that I now know basically how the game is played.
I feel a little sheepish. Is this what I was afraid of?
“It can’t be this simple,” I say doubtfully.
“It’s not,” he says. “But I’m gonna have to explain the rest in context.”
Yay. Because I’m a BIG fan of being the dumbest person in the room (which is probably really what this whole project is all about).
The snippets of football games I’ve seen when I haven’t been loudly acting out in frustration have featured phrases like “First and ten.” A lot. Today I learned that’s because those numbers describe the primary motion for scoring in football. The first number, which will be “first,” “second,” “third,” or “fourth,” tells everyone what “down” we’re on. A “down,” Mike tells me, is a chance to make it ten yards. You get four chances. If you don’t make it, the other team gets the ball.
We do this ten yards at a time? When the field is 100 yards long? No wonder this game has been excruciating to watch!
That piece of bad news has already tipped me off as to what the second number does: it tells everyone how many yards the team has to go before they reach the ten yard requirement to keep the ball.
Mike tells me that once I understand how the game works, things will move much faster. He really wants me to succeed at this little project. I married a good guy. He really wants to include me in this thing that monopolizes his evenings.
So as long as you make it ten yards in four tries, you get to keep trying to inch your way down to the other team’s endzone to score a touchdown. You can either carry a ball into the endzone, or you can throw it to one of your teammates that is already standing in the endzone. A touchdown is worth six points. After a touchdown is scored, a line of scrimmage forms on the second yard line. The scoring team gets one down (one chance, remember) to either carry the ball back into the endzone for two points (a two-point conversion) or kick a field goal for one point.
I was really starting to wonder what purpose those giant yellow u-shaped things at both ends of the field served. To successfully kick a field goal, ya gotta get the ball in the u.
Mike tells me that I now know basically how the game is played.
I feel a little sheepish. Is this what I was afraid of?
“It can’t be this simple,” I say doubtfully.
“It’s not,” he says. “But I’m gonna have to explain the rest in context.”
Yay. Because I’m a BIG fan of being the dumbest person in the room (which is probably really what this whole project is all about).
Oh THAT'S what you meant...
As an educator, I know that it's important to plot points on your learning curve.
Today I remembered a conversation Mike and I had about seven years ago, when we first started dating. We were watching that kid from Dawson's Creek struggle with worst Texas accent ever done in this cinematic masterpiece:
I have never understood why MTV insists on making movies.
Anyway, there's a scene where the coach (Jon Voight--man, he must have owed someone big time) tells Dawson--okay, the character's name is Mox (James Van Der Beek), who is a second-string quarterback promoted to starter, that "we're a running team." Mike laughed for the first and only time. I asked him why, and he told me that the coach had just insulted the quarterback. I had no idea what he was talking about.
Today, I looked at this man that I have since married, like I'd just discovered electricity, and said, "I know why that's an insult! Because it means that the coach doesn't trust the quarterback to pull off a passing play and just wants him to hand the ball to a running back!"
Today I remembered a conversation Mike and I had about seven years ago, when we first started dating. We were watching that kid from Dawson's Creek struggle with worst Texas accent ever done in this cinematic masterpiece:
I have never understood why MTV insists on making movies.
Anyway, there's a scene where the coach (Jon Voight--man, he must have owed someone big time) tells Dawson--okay, the character's name is Mox (James Van Der Beek), who is a second-string quarterback promoted to starter, that "we're a running team." Mike laughed for the first and only time. I asked him why, and he told me that the coach had just insulted the quarterback. I had no idea what he was talking about.
Today, I looked at this man that I have since married, like I'd just discovered electricity, and said, "I know why that's an insult! Because it means that the coach doesn't trust the quarterback to pull off a passing play and just wants him to hand the ball to a running back!"
The Who's Who of Football Play
Yesterday was one of those days that really tests my resolve: a Red Sox double header and the first games for football teams that aren’t The Pittsburgh Steelers and The Tennessee Titans (who played on Thursday), or The New England Patriots and The Buffalo Bills (who will play tonight). Sports went on a 10 am and didn’t turn off until close the 5 pm. I slept most of the day.
But tonight begins my at least eighteen weeks of being held hostage by the New England Patriots (twenty-three weeks if they make it to the Super Bowl), so it’s time to continue my education.
Many words and much frustration have only brought me to very beginning of the game. So what happens after kickoff? Usually, the receiving team catches the ball and runs as far as they can toward the opposing team’s end zone. Wherever the kicking team tackles the receiving team is where the next phase of play begins. For this scenario, we’re assuming that the receiving team caught the ball in the endzone and knelt on it. Therefore, everything starts on the 20 yard line (I didn’t remember that until Mike told me, but I’ve decided that’s OK). That’s usually how it goes. Things start on the 20 yard line.
Something I never realized about football: it’s not like baseball or basketball where the same guys play most of the game. After kickoff, we still have eleven guys from each team on the field, but it’s a different eleven guys. Mike says that there’s a lot of overlap in high school, but the talent at the collegiate/pro level is deep enough that it would be crazy to have the same guys playing for the whole game. And besides, this way I have to learn twice as much. Something that’s a major upgrade, though, is that jersey numbers actually mean something in football—they’re indicative of the player’s position. That does mean, however, that it is very unusual for a team to retire a number, though Mike has already informed me that Tom Brady will assuredly be the last Patriot to wear number 12.
So, after kickoff here are the new eleven guys that line up on the twenty yard line for the receiving team:
5 offensive line men. The dots marked T (Tackle), G (Guard), and C (Center). These are the sumo wrestler looking guys who wear numbers 60-79. Their sole job is to block for the guys standing behind them: the quarterback "Q" and the running backs "RB". They cannot be the first guys to touch the ball once the quarterback throws it. They cannot cross the line of scrimmage unless it’s a running play or the quarterback has already thrown the ball (more on types of plays later). They just block. That’s probably why they don’t usually get very famous.
1-2 tight ends (usually one), marked "TE". These guys are found on either side of the offensive linemen and they wear numbers 80-89. They’re not as big as offensive linemen. Their job is to sometimes block, and sometimes run out and catch a pass. Mike says the best one playing right now is Tony Gonzalez, who plays for the Kansas City Chiefs.
1-5 wide receivers "WR". These guys are on the farthest ends of the offensive line and wear numbers from 80-89. They run out and catch passes. They are the skinny fast guys on a team. Mike gives me the examples of Jerry Rice (retired from the San Francisco 49ers—Wikipedia tells me that he’s the best, so it must be true). Randy Moss (the New England Patriots) and Terrell Owens (now with the Buffalo Bills) are supposed to be the best ones playing right now. I’ve heard of all of these guys. I saw Terrell Owens on Tosh.0 and thought it was kind of funny. I feel a little less pathetic.
1 Quarterback. He’s the braintrust of the team—-at the play level he takes the snap and hands it off or passes it. His number is 1-19. Historically, Mike likes Joe Montana (San Francisco 49ers). I’ve heard of Tom Brady (the New England Patriots), the Manning brothers (Peyton with the Indianapolis Colts and Eli with the New York Giants), and this Brett Favre guy--everyone keeps arguing over whether or not he can make it through the season.
0-2 Running Backs "RB". They stand behind the quarterback in jersey numbers 30-39 and can get the handoff from the quarterback and run with the ball. They can also block for the quarterback, or go out and catch a pass. They’re not as skinny as wide receivers, not as big as tight ends. They run pretty fast. Mike likes Adrian Peterson (Minnesota Vikings). And because I went to UCLA, I heard about USC and Reggie Bush (New Orleans Saints) a whole lot for a few years.
Play begins with the snap: that’s when the center (he’s the really big guy in the center of the really big offensive line) hikes (passes the ball backwards through his legs) through to the quarterback. They don’t have to wave their hands or anything like the kicker does. They yell, but it’s a code that supposedly tells their players what to do and no one else.
There are two basic types of plays: running plays and passing plays.
A running play happens when the quarterback takes the snap and hands it to a running back (who then runs with the ball).
A passing play happens when the quarterback takes the snap, takes a few steps back, and then tries to pass (throw) the ball to a wide receiver, a tight end, or a running back.
So who are the eleven guys from the other team and what are they doing?
3-5, usually 4, Defensive Lineman (Red dots marked "DE" and "DT"): These are the big guys in front wearing jersey numbers that are usually 50-69. They’re not the same guys as the offensive lineman (except in high school, because apparently there just aren’t that many juggernaut teenagers in any given high school). One job: tackle the guy with the ball (they can start trying to do this as soon as the ball is snapped). On running plays, this will either be the quarterback or the running backs. On passing plays, they try get their hands up to block the pass (but this is hard, because they’re getting crushed by huge offensive lineman). Mike gives me the examples of Refrigerator Perry (formerly of the Chicago Bears) and Warren Sapp (formerly of the Oakland Raiders). I saw Refrigerator Perry on the Paula Dean show for Thanksgiving and Warren Sapp on Comedy Central’s roast of Larry the Cable Guy, so I know who they are.
3, sometimes 4 linebackers "LB". They stand behind the defensive linemen. Big guys, but not as big as defensive linemen, “fast-ish,” wear numbers 50-69. Their job: run in and try to tackle the quarterback or running backs. They also try to cover tight ends, and very rarely cover wide receivers. Mike names off Tedy Bruschi (retired from Pats) and Brian Urlacher (Chicago Bears—out for the season).
2 cornerbacks "CB" (usually as many as there are wide receivers). They stand on the far ends of the defensive line, across from the wide receivers, wearing numbers 20-
29. It’s their primary job to cover the wide receivers, so they’re also skinny fast guys too. The joke apparently is “if he had hands, he’d have been a wide receiver.” Their secondary job is to help tackle the guy with the ball, particularly when he gets away from the big defenders (which is not unusual, because they’re slow). Mike gives me the example of Asante Samuel(also formerly of the Patriots, now Philedelphia—-by now I’ve realized that Mike is not the most objective judge of NFL talent).
2 safeties "S". These guys stand on either side of the linebackers, wearing numbers 30-49. They’re kind of an insurance policy. Their job is to make sure that if the guy with the ball gets past this maze of huge people and manages to outrun the cornerbacks, that they still get tackled. Other jobs: sometimes they run in and tackle the quarterback in a play called a blitz, other times they help out on coverage for wide receivers and tight ends. They’re medium-ish guys—-a balance of speed and size. Mike likes Rodney Harrison (Patriots - retired) and Troy Polamalu (Pittsburgh Steelers--out for 3-6 weeks).
Alright—I’ve gotta learn about “downs” (which is apparently how play progresses) and then I’m actually going to try to follow the basic action of a game. Whew.
But tonight begins my at least eighteen weeks of being held hostage by the New England Patriots (twenty-three weeks if they make it to the Super Bowl), so it’s time to continue my education.
Many words and much frustration have only brought me to very beginning of the game. So what happens after kickoff? Usually, the receiving team catches the ball and runs as far as they can toward the opposing team’s end zone. Wherever the kicking team tackles the receiving team is where the next phase of play begins. For this scenario, we’re assuming that the receiving team caught the ball in the endzone and knelt on it. Therefore, everything starts on the 20 yard line (I didn’t remember that until Mike told me, but I’ve decided that’s OK). That’s usually how it goes. Things start on the 20 yard line.
Something I never realized about football: it’s not like baseball or basketball where the same guys play most of the game. After kickoff, we still have eleven guys from each team on the field, but it’s a different eleven guys. Mike says that there’s a lot of overlap in high school, but the talent at the collegiate/pro level is deep enough that it would be crazy to have the same guys playing for the whole game. And besides, this way I have to learn twice as much. Something that’s a major upgrade, though, is that jersey numbers actually mean something in football—they’re indicative of the player’s position. That does mean, however, that it is very unusual for a team to retire a number, though Mike has already informed me that Tom Brady will assuredly be the last Patriot to wear number 12.
So, after kickoff here are the new eleven guys that line up on the twenty yard line for the receiving team:
5 offensive line men. The dots marked T (Tackle), G (Guard), and C (Center). These are the sumo wrestler looking guys who wear numbers 60-79. Their sole job is to block for the guys standing behind them: the quarterback "Q" and the running backs "RB". They cannot be the first guys to touch the ball once the quarterback throws it. They cannot cross the line of scrimmage unless it’s a running play or the quarterback has already thrown the ball (more on types of plays later). They just block. That’s probably why they don’t usually get very famous.
1-2 tight ends (usually one), marked "TE". These guys are found on either side of the offensive linemen and they wear numbers 80-89. They’re not as big as offensive linemen. Their job is to sometimes block, and sometimes run out and catch a pass. Mike says the best one playing right now is Tony Gonzalez, who plays for the Kansas City Chiefs.
1-5 wide receivers "WR". These guys are on the farthest ends of the offensive line and wear numbers from 80-89. They run out and catch passes. They are the skinny fast guys on a team. Mike gives me the examples of Jerry Rice (retired from the San Francisco 49ers—Wikipedia tells me that he’s the best, so it must be true). Randy Moss (the New England Patriots) and Terrell Owens (now with the Buffalo Bills) are supposed to be the best ones playing right now. I’ve heard of all of these guys. I saw Terrell Owens on Tosh.0 and thought it was kind of funny. I feel a little less pathetic.
1 Quarterback. He’s the braintrust of the team—-at the play level he takes the snap and hands it off or passes it. His number is 1-19. Historically, Mike likes Joe Montana (San Francisco 49ers). I’ve heard of Tom Brady (the New England Patriots), the Manning brothers (Peyton with the Indianapolis Colts and Eli with the New York Giants), and this Brett Favre guy--everyone keeps arguing over whether or not he can make it through the season.
0-2 Running Backs "RB". They stand behind the quarterback in jersey numbers 30-39 and can get the handoff from the quarterback and run with the ball. They can also block for the quarterback, or go out and catch a pass. They’re not as skinny as wide receivers, not as big as tight ends. They run pretty fast. Mike likes Adrian Peterson (Minnesota Vikings). And because I went to UCLA, I heard about USC and Reggie Bush (New Orleans Saints) a whole lot for a few years.
Play begins with the snap: that’s when the center (he’s the really big guy in the center of the really big offensive line) hikes (passes the ball backwards through his legs) through to the quarterback. They don’t have to wave their hands or anything like the kicker does. They yell, but it’s a code that supposedly tells their players what to do and no one else.
There are two basic types of plays: running plays and passing plays.
A running play happens when the quarterback takes the snap and hands it to a running back (who then runs with the ball).
A passing play happens when the quarterback takes the snap, takes a few steps back, and then tries to pass (throw) the ball to a wide receiver, a tight end, or a running back.
So who are the eleven guys from the other team and what are they doing?
3-5, usually 4, Defensive Lineman (Red dots marked "DE" and "DT"): These are the big guys in front wearing jersey numbers that are usually 50-69. They’re not the same guys as the offensive lineman (except in high school, because apparently there just aren’t that many juggernaut teenagers in any given high school). One job: tackle the guy with the ball (they can start trying to do this as soon as the ball is snapped). On running plays, this will either be the quarterback or the running backs. On passing plays, they try get their hands up to block the pass (but this is hard, because they’re getting crushed by huge offensive lineman). Mike gives me the examples of Refrigerator Perry (formerly of the Chicago Bears) and Warren Sapp (formerly of the Oakland Raiders). I saw Refrigerator Perry on the Paula Dean show for Thanksgiving and Warren Sapp on Comedy Central’s roast of Larry the Cable Guy, so I know who they are.
3, sometimes 4 linebackers "LB". They stand behind the defensive linemen. Big guys, but not as big as defensive linemen, “fast-ish,” wear numbers 50-69. Their job: run in and try to tackle the quarterback or running backs. They also try to cover tight ends, and very rarely cover wide receivers. Mike names off Tedy Bruschi (retired from Pats) and Brian Urlacher (Chicago Bears—out for the season).
2 cornerbacks "CB" (usually as many as there are wide receivers). They stand on the far ends of the defensive line, across from the wide receivers, wearing numbers 20-
29. It’s their primary job to cover the wide receivers, so they’re also skinny fast guys too. The joke apparently is “if he had hands, he’d have been a wide receiver.” Their secondary job is to help tackle the guy with the ball, particularly when he gets away from the big defenders (which is not unusual, because they’re slow). Mike gives me the example of Asante Samuel(also formerly of the Patriots, now Philedelphia—-by now I’ve realized that Mike is not the most objective judge of NFL talent).
2 safeties "S". These guys stand on either side of the linebackers, wearing numbers 30-49. They’re kind of an insurance policy. Their job is to make sure that if the guy with the ball gets past this maze of huge people and manages to outrun the cornerbacks, that they still get tackled. Other jobs: sometimes they run in and tackle the quarterback in a play called a blitz, other times they help out on coverage for wide receivers and tight ends. They’re medium-ish guys—-a balance of speed and size. Mike likes Rodney Harrison (Patriots - retired) and Troy Polamalu (Pittsburgh Steelers--out for 3-6 weeks).
Alright—I’ve gotta learn about “downs” (which is apparently how play progresses) and then I’m actually going to try to follow the basic action of a game. Whew.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Vampires and Football
Today we’re at SuperMex, a happy hour featuring half-price appetizers and dangerously cheap margaritas. We’re discussing why Los Angeles doesn’t have an NFL franchise.
Me: They loved the Raiders. They still love the Raiders. It’s a real failure of the NFL that they haven’t gotten them a new team.
Mike: Maybe they’re afraid that Al Davis will suck out their souls.
Me: Huh?
By now he’s pulled up this picture:
It would have been freaking awesome if they had cast this guy as Aro in New Moon.
Me: They loved the Raiders. They still love the Raiders. It’s a real failure of the NFL that they haven’t gotten them a new team.
Mike: Maybe they’re afraid that Al Davis will suck out their souls.
Me: Huh?
By now he’s pulled up this picture:
It would have been freaking awesome if they had cast this guy as Aro in New Moon.
Kick off.
We have to start cranking. The season starts Sunday.
Today, I’m learning who actually goes on the field Mike drew so nicely for me last time.
We start with kick-off (which I’m sarcastically reminded follows the coin toss. If you don’t know what a coin toss is, watch this video. You get the idea).
Oh, but no! This game makes even a coin toss more difficult than it should be.
Me: So the winner of the coin toss goes first, right?
Mike: Maybe.
IhatethisgameIhatethisgameIhatethisgame.
Me: OK, I give up. What does a coin toss mean?
Mike: You get to choose.
Me: Choose what?
Mike: If you want to choose who kicks first, or which side you want.
Me: It’s a choice of a choice?
Mike: Yeah, you either choose to kick or receive first, or you yield that choice and pick the side that’s getting better wind.
Me: Of course (I don’t have it in me to ask what constitutes “better wind”).
So: A kick off. One team kicks the ball to another team to start the game, the half, or to start play after points are scored.
Okay. I’m probably going to regret this, but can I get a diagram?
Kicking Team (represented by the X’s): 11 guys. There have to be at least 4 guys on each side of the kicker (so you can divide up 4/6, 5/5, or 6/4); they line up on their 30 yard line. They need to get through the O’s to the end zone on that side to score.
Receiving Team (O’s): 11 guys. They can be anywhere. They need to get through the X’s to the end zone on that side to score.
The kicker puts his arm up. This signals that he’s ready. Then he lowers his arm and starts running. The other ten guys run with him. The kicker kicks the ball. Before he kicks, the other 10 guys cannot cross the line that the ball is on. Otherwise, they get a penalty.
Me: So how do they catch the ball?
Mike: Once the ball goes 10 yards, it’s a live ball. Whoever catches the ball, keeps the ball.
Me: But isn’t the kicker’s team way behind the ball at this point?
Mike: Yes…
Me: So the kicker's team isn’t supposed to catch the ball.
Mike: Typically, no.
Me: Oh! That’s why they call the other team the receiving team! Because they receive the ball!
It’s all about baby steps.
Typically, the kicker kicks the ball as far as he can. It’s caught by the top two O’s.
Who are the top two O’s? Kick returners. They catch the ball, and all the guys on the kicker’s team try to tackle the guy who now has the ball. The other guys on the receiving team (teammates of the guy who caught the ball), try to block them.
So what happens if those two O’s don’t catch the ball?
A “touch back” occurs if the ball goes out of bounds in the end zone, or if the O’s catch the ball in the end zone and “take a kneel” (they kneel on the ball). Then they start with the ball on the 20 yard line.
But if the ball goes out of bounds before the endzone, it’s a bad kick, and the O’s get to start on the 35 yard line or where the ball went out of bounds, whichever is better.
There’s more…
If the kicking team wants to try to get the ball back (usually because it’s late in the game and they’re losing), the kicking team can kick the ball a short distance—but at least 10 yards—then they try to get the ball.
So the kicking team lines up. The kicker kicks the ball so that it bounces high in the air, so that his team has time to run and pick the ball up. Whoever gets the ball keeps the ball where they pick it up or land on it.
Mike: Overwhelmed yet?
Me: Those big guys that I see in the after game interviews, the ones that can barely put a sentence together? Do they know all these rules?
Mike: The quarterback knows most of them. The other guys should know at least the ones that pertain to them.
I am depressed beyond words.
Mike: Don’t worry. It’s much easier when you can see all of this happening.
Me: No, when I see it happening it’s just a bunch of giant humanoid battlebots trying to clobber each other.
Mike: That’s fun to watch.
Me: True.
Today, I’m learning who actually goes on the field Mike drew so nicely for me last time.
We start with kick-off (which I’m sarcastically reminded follows the coin toss. If you don’t know what a coin toss is, watch this video. You get the idea).
Oh, but no! This game makes even a coin toss more difficult than it should be.
Me: So the winner of the coin toss goes first, right?
Mike: Maybe.
IhatethisgameIhatethisgameIhatethisgame.
Me: OK, I give up. What does a coin toss mean?
Mike: You get to choose.
Me: Choose what?
Mike: If you want to choose who kicks first, or which side you want.
Me: It’s a choice of a choice?
Mike: Yeah, you either choose to kick or receive first, or you yield that choice and pick the side that’s getting better wind.
Me: Of course (I don’t have it in me to ask what constitutes “better wind”).
So: A kick off. One team kicks the ball to another team to start the game, the half, or to start play after points are scored.
Okay. I’m probably going to regret this, but can I get a diagram?
Kicking Team (represented by the X’s): 11 guys. There have to be at least 4 guys on each side of the kicker (so you can divide up 4/6, 5/5, or 6/4); they line up on their 30 yard line. They need to get through the O’s to the end zone on that side to score.
Receiving Team (O’s): 11 guys. They can be anywhere. They need to get through the X’s to the end zone on that side to score.
The kicker puts his arm up. This signals that he’s ready. Then he lowers his arm and starts running. The other ten guys run with him. The kicker kicks the ball. Before he kicks, the other 10 guys cannot cross the line that the ball is on. Otherwise, they get a penalty.
Me: So how do they catch the ball?
Mike: Once the ball goes 10 yards, it’s a live ball. Whoever catches the ball, keeps the ball.
Me: But isn’t the kicker’s team way behind the ball at this point?
Mike: Yes…
Me: So the kicker's team isn’t supposed to catch the ball.
Mike: Typically, no.
Me: Oh! That’s why they call the other team the receiving team! Because they receive the ball!
It’s all about baby steps.
Typically, the kicker kicks the ball as far as he can. It’s caught by the top two O’s.
Who are the top two O’s? Kick returners. They catch the ball, and all the guys on the kicker’s team try to tackle the guy who now has the ball. The other guys on the receiving team (teammates of the guy who caught the ball), try to block them.
So what happens if those two O’s don’t catch the ball?
A “touch back” occurs if the ball goes out of bounds in the end zone, or if the O’s catch the ball in the end zone and “take a kneel” (they kneel on the ball). Then they start with the ball on the 20 yard line.
But if the ball goes out of bounds before the endzone, it’s a bad kick, and the O’s get to start on the 35 yard line or where the ball went out of bounds, whichever is better.
There’s more…
If the kicking team wants to try to get the ball back (usually because it’s late in the game and they’re losing), the kicking team can kick the ball a short distance—but at least 10 yards—then they try to get the ball.
So the kicking team lines up. The kicker kicks the ball so that it bounces high in the air, so that his team has time to run and pick the ball up. Whoever gets the ball keeps the ball where they pick it up or land on it.
Mike: Overwhelmed yet?
Me: Those big guys that I see in the after game interviews, the ones that can barely put a sentence together? Do they know all these rules?
Mike: The quarterback knows most of them. The other guys should know at least the ones that pertain to them.
I am depressed beyond words.
Mike: Don’t worry. It’s much easier when you can see all of this happening.
Me: No, when I see it happening it’s just a bunch of giant humanoid battlebots trying to clobber each other.
Mike: That’s fun to watch.
Me: True.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Let's start at the very beginning. A very good place to start.
Oh my. I’m starting this conversation with Broadway musicals. Not good. I pour a glass of Trader Joe’s “two-buck Chuck” and I’m officially ready to go through the looking glass as Mike and I sit down for our first conversation about the rudimentary basics of football.
I’ve only sat through a football game once: back when we were dating Mike wanted to see a UCLA game, so we watched Oregon beat them. Or, he watched and I played on my Blackberry (we needed my student ID for the lower ticket prices)—I think we still left early. Before that, I went to a women’s college and a high school with a pathetically bad football team and a nationally recognized halftime show—the bleachers filled a while after kickoff and emptied long before the clock ran out.
Which brings us back to the very beginning. Mike has to tell me that a football game is played in sixty minutes, divided into four fifteen minute quarters. But because of time-outs and starts and stops, most games take around three hours to play out. The three hour thing explains two critical points: 1) why I’ve never sat through a game and 2) why football takes over so many of our Sundays and the occasional Monday. Gotcha.
He starts drawing a diagram. Oh God. There are diagrams. I am momentarily paralyzed by a flashback to high school geometry. Or worse still, chemistry, which I was taught by an inept ex-employee of Anheiser-Busch that was eventually asked to resign in the middle of the fall semester.
Excuse the grease stains. We’re eating pizza as we converse to at least nudge me in the right direction. You’ll notice that he’s notated defense as “D” and a picture of a fence. Awesome. I’ve been reduced to the “I Can Read!” level. But I quickly learn that I’m not even ready for words, as Mike shows me the “lines” of the 100X50 yard rectangle that is the football field. I think I knew that the lines descended from the center of the field ending in a ten-yard endzone for both teams, but it was nice of him to explain it to me anyway. Way better than chem.
I’ve only sat through a football game once: back when we were dating Mike wanted to see a UCLA game, so we watched Oregon beat them. Or, he watched and I played on my Blackberry (we needed my student ID for the lower ticket prices)—I think we still left early. Before that, I went to a women’s college and a high school with a pathetically bad football team and a nationally recognized halftime show—the bleachers filled a while after kickoff and emptied long before the clock ran out.
Which brings us back to the very beginning. Mike has to tell me that a football game is played in sixty minutes, divided into four fifteen minute quarters. But because of time-outs and starts and stops, most games take around three hours to play out. The three hour thing explains two critical points: 1) why I’ve never sat through a game and 2) why football takes over so many of our Sundays and the occasional Monday. Gotcha.
He starts drawing a diagram. Oh God. There are diagrams. I am momentarily paralyzed by a flashback to high school geometry. Or worse still, chemistry, which I was taught by an inept ex-employee of Anheiser-Busch that was eventually asked to resign in the middle of the fall semester.
Excuse the grease stains. We’re eating pizza as we converse to at least nudge me in the right direction. You’ll notice that he’s notated defense as “D” and a picture of a fence. Awesome. I’ve been reduced to the “I Can Read!” level. But I quickly learn that I’m not even ready for words, as Mike shows me the “lines” of the 100X50 yard rectangle that is the football field. I think I knew that the lines descended from the center of the field ending in a ten-yard endzone for both teams, but it was nice of him to explain it to me anyway. Way better than chem.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
And so it begins…
It’s Labor Day weekend, which can only mean one thing: Mike is consumed with setting up Fantasy Football leagues. This year looks a little light—he’s only going to run two teams.
I have a rudimentary understanding of baseball, though I’m usually only interested in it as far as my hometown team, the Houston Astros, keeps me interested (this year that was the approximately three days that we had a winning record).
And as a loyalist to the tortured sports Mecca, I understand enough basketball that I knew where to cheer when the Houston Rockets won back-to-back championships when I was in junior high —the only championships the city has ever seen.
But watching football has always been an experience that I can only imagine is similar to sitting through a Catholic mass in Latin: they’re using a language I don’t understand to pull people through rites and rituals that everyone knows and no one can explain to me.
If you think that’s an extreme comparison, you’ve never heard a Patriots fan talk about the helmet catch in the 2007 Super Bowl.*
I realize now, that with football season looming on the horizon, I made this resolution to learn sports and love sports culture at an inopportune moment, but now I’m publicly committed and I have way too much pride to back down. I’m a PhD candidate in freaking Chinese. I won a Fulbright scholarship. I will not be beaten.
Our first conversation begins, appropriately, at a bar. We’re having some cheap happy hour beers, when Mike points to one of the flat screens and says, “Lesson one: you can’t tackle a guy like this.” As far as I can tell, a big guy has grabbed the back of a green jersey worn by another big guy (I do know that the green jersey belongs to a player from The Jets, who I have gathered in seven years of knowing Mike are an annoying pestilence in Patriot nation).
“You can’t grab someone’s shirt?” I asked. That seems like an odd rule for a sport that features guys just under Sumo weight trying to clobber each other.
He’s very patient. “No, you can’t get under someone’s shoulder pads and use them to drag someone backwards to the ground.”
Oh. That seems fair.
Unfortunately, that rule adds nothing to my understanding about how the game is actually played. Tune in next time for “How to Explain the Rudimentary Workings of Football to a Fulbright Scholar.”
*I actually watched the 2007 Super Bowl with Mike, in Shanghai of all places, but still had no idea what Sports Guy (Bill Simmons) was talking about when he tweeted: “Giant fans, admit it: the Helmet Catch is now the flukiest big play in sports history. Just admit it. Do this for my sanity.” Mike tells me that he was talking about this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-aKfTK2LiM, where David Tyree made a miraculous (if you're a Giants fan, at least) fair catch on top of his helmet. I still don’t know what a fair catch is, but I’m told that it has something to do with the ball not touching the ground.**
**On reading this post, Mike has informed me that a fair catch has nothing to do with the ball not touching the ground. Obviously, this will need to wait for a later lesson.
I have a rudimentary understanding of baseball, though I’m usually only interested in it as far as my hometown team, the Houston Astros, keeps me interested (this year that was the approximately three days that we had a winning record).
And as a loyalist to the tortured sports Mecca, I understand enough basketball that I knew where to cheer when the Houston Rockets won back-to-back championships when I was in junior high —the only championships the city has ever seen.
But watching football has always been an experience that I can only imagine is similar to sitting through a Catholic mass in Latin: they’re using a language I don’t understand to pull people through rites and rituals that everyone knows and no one can explain to me.
If you think that’s an extreme comparison, you’ve never heard a Patriots fan talk about the helmet catch in the 2007 Super Bowl.*
I realize now, that with football season looming on the horizon, I made this resolution to learn sports and love sports culture at an inopportune moment, but now I’m publicly committed and I have way too much pride to back down. I’m a PhD candidate in freaking Chinese. I won a Fulbright scholarship. I will not be beaten.
Our first conversation begins, appropriately, at a bar. We’re having some cheap happy hour beers, when Mike points to one of the flat screens and says, “Lesson one: you can’t tackle a guy like this.” As far as I can tell, a big guy has grabbed the back of a green jersey worn by another big guy (I do know that the green jersey belongs to a player from The Jets, who I have gathered in seven years of knowing Mike are an annoying pestilence in Patriot nation).
“You can’t grab someone’s shirt?” I asked. That seems like an odd rule for a sport that features guys just under Sumo weight trying to clobber each other.
He’s very patient. “No, you can’t get under someone’s shoulder pads and use them to drag someone backwards to the ground.”
Oh. That seems fair.
Unfortunately, that rule adds nothing to my understanding about how the game is actually played. Tune in next time for “How to Explain the Rudimentary Workings of Football to a Fulbright Scholar.”
*I actually watched the 2007 Super Bowl with Mike, in Shanghai of all places, but still had no idea what Sports Guy (Bill Simmons) was talking about when he tweeted: “Giant fans, admit it: the Helmet Catch is now the flukiest big play in sports history. Just admit it. Do this for my sanity.” Mike tells me that he was talking about this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-aKfTK2LiM, where David Tyree made a miraculous (if you're a Giants fan, at least) fair catch on top of his helmet. I still don’t know what a fair catch is, but I’m told that it has something to do with the ball not touching the ground.**
**On reading this post, Mike has informed me that a fair catch has nothing to do with the ball not touching the ground. Obviously, this will need to wait for a later lesson.
Because blogging is a lot cheaper than therapy...
Remember the 2005 movie Fever Pitch, featuring the love story of Lindsey (Drew Barrymore) and Ben (Jimmy Fallon), a pair of star-crossed lovers in fair Boston, where the star-crossing is done by the Boston Red Sox?
I married Ben. Except my Ben, whose name is really Mike, is star-crossed by the Red Sox, the Patriots, the Celtics, the Bruins, and anything else (even obscure sports that have nothing whatsoever to do with Boston) that gets featured on SportsCenter.
Before I married Mike, I couldn’t have told you what SportsCenter was (it's a highlights show that airs up to twelve—yes, twelve—times a day on ESPN).
I’m tired of being shut out of something that’s so important to him and he’s tired of my excessive sighing and loud housecleaning during various telecasts. So I’ve agreed to submit to “re-education,” if he’ll let me snark about it on a blog.
This is my dramatic run across the outfield grass at Fenway, folks.
I married Ben. Except my Ben, whose name is really Mike, is star-crossed by the Red Sox, the Patriots, the Celtics, the Bruins, and anything else (even obscure sports that have nothing whatsoever to do with Boston) that gets featured on SportsCenter.
Before I married Mike, I couldn’t have told you what SportsCenter was (it's a highlights show that airs up to twelve—yes, twelve—times a day on ESPN).
I’m tired of being shut out of something that’s so important to him and he’s tired of my excessive sighing and loud housecleaning during various telecasts. So I’ve agreed to submit to “re-education,” if he’ll let me snark about it on a blog.
This is my dramatic run across the outfield grass at Fenway, folks.
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