Why I Love My Team

[Prime Time]

Do you have your own fan story? Email us at talkback@themmqb.com.
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http://mmqb.si.com/mmqb/2015/09/09/nfl-fans-why-they-love-their-teams-part-ii

Why I Love My Team’

This summer, seeking contributors for The MMQB’s new weekly fan-oriented column for the 2015 season, we asked readers to send in a short essay on why they love the teams they do. The responses flooded in from all over the country and the world, from men and women of all ages, representing all 32 NFL teams. To kick off this season’s Voice of the Fan column, we’re running selections from these submissions, capturing the joy—and all too often, the abject misery—of football fandom. These are the 16 teams of the NFC.

St. Louis Rams
Sunday, October 19, 2014, the Seahawks are in St. Louis.

Let me start by saying I’m probably the only University of Wisconsin alum who CANNOT STAND Russell Wilson. I know he did a lot for the Badgers, and he’s basically the most likeable guy ever, but now he plays for the Seahawks and has some pretty ridiculous good luck. So no, Mom, I don’t think he’s “just so adorable.” I think he’s the worst.

Anyway, it’s midway through the second quarter, and Seattle has just punted. From my seat in the Dome, it looks like business as usual, Tavon Austin is waving fair catch from the right corner of the field. Before this moment, did you ever realize that no one actually looks at the ball while it’s in the air? Because all of a sudden we see Stedman Bailey racing up the opposite sideline with only the punter in his path to the end zone. He gets a huge block and is basically home free to score.

So then it’s fourth quarter and Seattle has been marching down the field, and it seems like they’ve taken over. We’re punting from way deep, and our lead is looking precarious. But Johnny Hekker fakes the punt and throws a BEAUTIFUL pass to Benny Cunningham for an 18-yard gain and a first down that would go on to seal the win. Yay. Are there any other teams with fans who love them because of their special teams play?

—Chelsea Osterby

* * *

The Rams are in my blood. They have been since 1978. They have been since I was 8 and wrote Vince Ferragamo a letter of condolence after Super Bowl XIV and he wrote back with an autographed photo. I was crushed when he went to the CFL—and elated when he returned a year later. The Rams are Sundays in front of the TV in the 1980s with my Dad.

They’re games high in the stands at Anaheim in the early ’90s during college. I’ve gone to see them play in L.A., Arizona, Foxboro (New Englanders love seeing a token Rams fan; it’s like I’m a unicorn), St. Louis, and more. I loved them in L.A. and in St. Louis and can honestly say I don’t care where they end up in in 2016. I can recite Rams statistics from memory, like Dickerson’s 6,968 yards in his first four seasons. I’m entering season 38 following and loving this team.

—Will Milano

* * *

I’m 54 years old and I still have trouble sleeping the night before a game. I know, I should probably seek professional help. Just ask my wife.

—Joe Marshall

* * *

Arizona Cardinals
Despite being one of two charter members of the NFL still in existence, the Cardinals’ last championship was in 1947. They are the fastest team to reach 700 losses. In their first 20 seasons in the desert, they had 17 losing seasons. But stats only tell part of the story, as any longtime Cardinals fan can tell you. Who can forget walking up to the ticket window at Sun Devil Stadium a few minutes before kickoff and still being able to get good seats?

Those seats, of course, being aluminum benches—in 105-degree heat … in September … in the middle of a sea of opposing fans. Who can forget free agents bypassing Arizona, except the ones looking for a warm place to retire? I sure don’t. But that was then. Now is the University of Phoenix Stadium, which has sold out every game since it opened in 2006. Now is Bruce Arians, Steve Keim and a nucleus of young stars. Now is about inducting Adrian Wilson into the Ring of Honor, one of the draft picks that made all of this possible. How can you not love this team?

—Kevin McNeill

* * *

My young son and I were part of the 25,000 or so season-ticket holders who went to Sun Devil Stadium—it is not even a nice college stadium—and lived through the Joe Bugel era, the Buddy Ryan “you’ve got a winner in town” era, the Vince Tobin era, the Dave McGinnis era, the Dennis Green “they are what we thought they were” era, on to the Ken Whisenhunt and, finally, the Bruce Arians era. Hell, at 64, I’ve lived through more eras than any sports fan should have to endure. Now I live in Maryland, but a Cardinals victory still makes or breaks my football Sundays.

—Ray Shefska

* * *

Atlanta Falcons
The Patriots are perennially great, inspiringly so. Other teams are predictably lousy (ask the guy wearing the paper bag). The Atlanta Falcons are periodically good—often mediocre, occasionally great, but throughout the years, they periodically contend for the postseason or even a home-field playoff game. In my experience (I’m a chaplain at an aerospace university), human beings are also periodically good—often struggling to get by, sometimes demonstrating the extraordinary, but for the most part working hard to do what good we can.

This is why I love the Falcons—being a loyal, hometown fan of Steve Bartkowski (childhood lesson in hope: watching him duel Roger Staubach through the first half of a playoff game and daring to dream we could indeed beat the Cowboys); Michael Vick (defeating the Packers in January, at Lambeau! incarceration in disgrace, working hard at redemption); and Eugene Robinson (a Super Bowl lesson in stupidity and shame) helps me understand what it means to be a human being, warts, taped ankles and all. We cheer, or we cover our eyes, and deep down, discovering who we are, we are comforted, transformed and encouraged by the drama of being periodically good.

—David Keck

* * *

I declined pain meds just 10 hours after having all four wisdom teeth removed solely so that I could experience the Falcons’ excruciating 2010 loss to the Packers in the divisional playoffs with a clear head. This is a memory I wish was hazy. I just graduated college and I'm looking for marketing opportunities, with the hope that I can convince my dad that buying season tickets for the new Falcons stadium is not a poor 30-year investment.

—Chris Cortese

* * *

Carolina Panthers

At 10 years old I had a big decision to make. I had grown up liking Dan Marino, but the Dolphins were my dad’s team. I didn’t want to be a bandwagon fan; I wanted a new team all to my own. So when my mom held up a Jacksonville Jaguars shirt and a Carolina Panthers shirt in the mall that day in 1995 and told me to pick one, the Panthers’ colors and logo drew me in. It was something as simple and borderline silly as that. But ever since I’ve been a diehard Panthers fan. Sure, we had Rae Carruth and Greg Hardy, but we’ve also had Sam Mills, Muhsin Muhammad, Jordan Gross, Luke Kuechly, Greg Olsen and now the NFL Man of the Year Thomas Davis. That’s why I love my team.

We’ve been 12-4, 1-15, and definitely everything in between. But we’ve always had players worth cheering for. People idolize Tom Brady and Joe Montana; I idolize Jake Delhomme for that amazing 2003 Super Bowl run. I’ve convinced myself that Chris Weinke and Jimmy Clausen were the answer, and also proudly celebrated a 7-8-1 division title. Keep Pounding isn’t just a phrase on the inside of our collar—it’s a way of life for the team and for myself.

—Kurt Zamora

* * *

Chicago Bears

I love the Bears because my father taught me to love them. He taught me that defense wins, Doug Flutie was a gamer, and that Walter Payton was the best who ever lived. Mostly, though, my dad taught me that loving a team so much is hard, and that they will break your heart if you let them. He taught me to embrace the heartbreak because nothing good comes easy, and gratification delayed is often the best kind.

I love the Bears because Devin Hester returned the opening kickoff of Super Bowl XLI for a touchdown. In my mind it was 1986 and I was eight years old, sitting on the couch next to my dad as the Bears won Super Bowl XX. God, I loved that team. They were more than men … more than players. They were a young boy’s heroes, perfect in every way. Most importantly, they were the motivation for a father and son to spend three hours together every Sunday watching something they both loved, with no place else either would rather be.

My dad is gone now and I miss him every day, though rarely more so than on game days. This season, like every season, I will be cheering for my team… our team. I hope that my young son chooses to join me, and I hope that he finds players worthy of his admiration. I also hope he learns, more quickly than I, that the true hero is often the guy on the other end of the couch.

Bears games are not about football. Bears games are about family.

—Jeff Lamb

* * *

Dallas Cowboys
I've been a Cowboys fan since I was five because my dad was. From Bartlett, Texas, he was a soldier, and we traveled all over the world. He took the family to Germany, Italy, Turkey and Thailand, and he left us home at Fort Hood for a couple tours in Vietnam. In some of those places we missed out on hearing or seeing games. As a teenager I listened to the Armed Forces Network broadcast on a transistor radio in Germany.

Maybe I would hear a Cowboys game, or I'd hear whatever games were being broadcast, listening for a Cowboys score update. When I became a soldier, too, AFN allowed us to see and hear more football, sometimes Cowboys games. I've lived the glory years and 1-15. Landry to Garrett, Meredith to Romo, Howley and White, Ware and Lee, and all the “88s.”

My wife and kids became fans too, even though we live in Kansas now. My dad and wife have passed recently, but mom and the rest of us know we'll see another Cowboys Super Bowl.

—Bernd L. Ingram

* * *

One of the earliest pictures of me is from when I’m three months old, leaning against my father’s chest as he lies on his side. We have the same wide grin on our faces as I hold a tiny Dallas Cowboys football next to my head. When I was older, he liked to show me that photo to point out that, even at such a young age, I knew how to properly hold the pigskin—I even gripped the laces.

It was coincidence, of course, but the love of the game, the team, and my father were anything but. When I was 5, my family and I were seated next to Tom Landry’s table at El Fenix, a Dallas institution. After a whispered conversation, my parents sent me to interrupt his meal and ask for an autograph. The napkin, made out to me, sits framed in my mother’s apartment today, some 33 years later.

A year later, my dad took me to my first game—the Dec. 26, 1983, divisional playoff against the Los Angeles Rams. The temperature never made it out of the 20s that day, and the Cowboys never got to the 20s at all, falling to the underdog Rams, 24-17. My only memories of the game, though, are my dad calling out to Drew Pearson during warmups and seeing him wave at us, and us later huddling under a blanket as we watched from our end-zone seats.

My father died on August 9, 2007. The hospital moved him into my childhood home for hospice care earlier that day. That evening I sat by his bed and watched the Cowboys play their first preseason game of the year against the Colts. Dad was seemingly unconscious by then, but the doctors said it was important to talk to him, to let him know we were there. I held his hand and did play-by-play of the game so he could hear my voice. Shortly after the game, he passed on.

Today, I’m not as ravenous a fan as I once was—that energy is the luxury of youth. But I still think of my father every time I watch the Cowboys, and I rarely miss a game. Whether they win or lose, I always come out ahead.

—Roger Brooks

* * *

Detroit Lions
“Did he just run out of the back of the end zone?” Come join me in Ramadi, Iraq, in 2008. It is 123 degrees outside, and about 150 in the porta-john I am sitting in. Exiting this plastic sauna will be one of the highlights of my day, the drastic temperature change allowing for a brief respite from the heat. I have a small portable DVD player sitting in my lap, and I am watching the winless Lions play the Vikings in a meaningless game. I had my dad record all the games and mail them to me, so I was like the guy who yelled at you in the coffee shop yesterday because they heard you discussing the ending of “Breaking Bad.”

I watched every game that season during bathroom breaks, or before I went to bed, or in the morning while I worked up the courage to leave the slightly-less-hellishly-hot sleeping area and walk to the shower. I didn't do it because I love the Lions. I hate them. They manage to ruin nearly every major holiday in the cold months every year. I do it because the Lions are a part of me. A part of where I live. I watch them for the same reason a person passing you on the street in Detroit with a “Need Help” sign would tell you they were on the up and up. "Ahh, that refreshing Midwestern hope!" You say. That isn't it. It's because people from Detroit are insane.

—Jordan Kalm

* * *

Minnesota Vikings

I don’t remember how I became a Vikings fan over 30 years ago. There was no definitive moment of clarity. I live 26 hours away, in a completely different country. Back then, there was no Internet or social media available to keep me informed, and the Ottawa newspapers rarely focused any attention on the Vikings. But as fate would have it, I hung an Anthony Carter Nike poster over the bed in my childhood room, and I would stare at it for hours. It was a picture of AC stretched out in a Superman pose, making a circus-like catch. And I was hooked.

Loving the Vikings is hard. We have famously lost four Super Bowls, made arguably the worst trade in NFL history, and blew the 1998 NFC title game to the Falcons. But I do love the Vikings for the amazing fans I’ve met, who have made me laugh and taught me much. We have celebrated wins together, complained about Tice and Childress and groaned over the Love Boat saga. I recently lost one of these long-distance friends and I cried when I got the news.

I am a better person simply because I hung that poster. Who knew?

—Chris Medaglia

* * *

Anyone claiming to be a Vikings fan is clearly a glutton for punishment, and yet I am still here calling my self a Vikings fan. Maybe it's the tease that I love so much. The magic of the regular season and the tragic results in the playoffs. Yet here I am, still cheering for the Vikings, still engaged in a team that I have championship hopes for. I drink the purple Kool-Aid yet I'm still able to see my team for what it is.

—Brent Grebinoski

* * *

Where would love, or a Vikings fan, be without optimism? There have been no championships here. The dearth of titles extends well beyond the confines of the recently (and mercifully) imploded Metrodome and its horned tenants, whose heartbreaking exploits and near misses are too excruciating to tally. But we are optimistic! We will blow the Gjallarhorn and fill our luminous new stadium with a clamor so magnificent that our gridiron heroes can’t help but ascend to the pinnacle of greatness! We will love. Skol Vikings.

—Herb Scherb

* * *

New Orleans Saints

Everyone knows by now how much residents of New Orleans relied on the Saints for hope after the destruction caused by Hurricane Katrina. But that was simply an event that strengthened the bond of the city and its fans, not christened it. The love this city has had for our boys was strong long before they gave us hope after the storm or Drew Brees was racking up record after record while leading the team to its first Super Bowl victory ever. Even when they were lovable losers, we related to them, we hoped with them, we identified with them.

—Jonathan Barnes

* * *

My love for the New Orleans Saints is embedded in the organization’s rise from the Bourbon Street gutter to football’s Mecca. Simply put, I love our story. I love where we came from and where we currently reside, which is the greatest era of Saints football in the history of the organization. If given the opportunity to alter our cursed past, I’d leave every losing season as is, because the view from the mountaintop at the end of the 2009 season was that much more enjoyable for the long climb it took to get there.

It wasn’t easy growing up a Saints fan. While the losses hurt, the real torture was being on the wrong side of every highlight reel or new NFL record. You would’ve been hard-pressed to find any optimism amongst fans in the past, but this era isn’t our dad’s or grandfather’s Saints.

I was in love well before the return from Katrina, but Steve Gleason’s blocked punt against the hated Falcons sealed it. That moment was the greatest of my sports life and the start of something entirely new for Saints fans.

—David Dussouy

* * *

The Saints are home.

Gumbo. Bud’s Broiler. Crawfish boils on Easter Sunday. Green Christmases. No Mora Excuses. The heartbreak of a great defense and a Carl Smith offense. Pierre Thomas beating out a fourth-round pick. Hope. A relief from a bad economy. A reason to hate Goodell’s knee-jerk marketing-focused “protect the shield” BS. The last seven years of Drew Brees and offensive excellence.

And though I live 1300 miles away, they’re still a connection to my dad and my annual kiss-of-death (his opinion) text regarding the team we both love: Saints Superbowl.

—Bryant Duhon

* * *

New York Giants
I learned my first 13-letter word when Kerry Collins threw an interception against the Dallas Cowboys in Week 11 of the 2001 season, destroying both the Giants’ chance to return to the playoffs and my mother’s resolve to keep my 6-year-old mind a cuss-free sanctuary. They say it takes a village, but I say it took the Meadowlands. As a child, I was taught to look both ways before crossing the street and to always kneel the ball to kill the clock or else Joe Pisarcik will throw an interception. At my Bar Mitzvah, on a live microphone in front of everybody I knew, I corrected the DJ that the best day of my life had actually been six weeks earlier when the Giants won Super Bowl XLII. (The cake was a Lombardi Trophy.)

The Giants taught me that sports can make a difference, with players going above and beyond for 9/11 firefighters, cancer research and the families of Sandy Hook victims, to name a few. The Giants taught me patience, exemplified discipline and proved that the David Tyrees of the world can hope to become entrenched in history. The Giants helped raise me.

—Danny Heifetz

* * *

When my grandfather passed away in April of 2010, we went to clean out his house and we found his wallet. In his wallet he had a picture of my grandma, a picture of his five grandkids, a couple 20s and the New York Giants roster taken from Newsday. While the reason he had the roster in his wallet was a failing memory, its place among the other most important things in his life was no mistake. My grandfather loved the Giants. And until his very last day, the Giants were always something we had together and always something he wanted to talk about.

Some of my best memories growing up were being in my grandfather's basement and looking at the game-day magazines he had collected from his consecutive-games attendance streak that started at the Polo Grounds and took him through the last game at the old Giants Stadium. Others included being in the Giants Stadium parking lot and having my grandpa throw us passes and make sure we caught the ball with our hands like Homer Jones, a guy we had never heard of.

He was the most passionate fan I have ever been around. Sometimes you couldn’t tell if he loved or hated the team (he even credits himself with possibly starting the Goodbye Allie chants of 1966), but he was always passionate. The Giants were his main source of frustration but also his biggest source of happiness, and always something he wanted to talk about with his grandkids. I love the New York Giants because my grandfather loved the New York Giants.

—Bryan Hiller

* * *

Philadelphia Eagles
I’m a New York kid, born and bred. I love the Yankees, the Knicks, and the… wait, I love the Eagles? I’ve been asked approximately a million times some derivative of the question, “How does a New Yorker become a Philadelphia Eagles fan?” Normally the words slip through their lips with equal parts curiosity and disdain, almost as if I’m a traitor. I rarely tell people why I bleed green; it’s personal. The truth is, it started when I was 6. My interest in sports was beginning to grow, and I knew I was supposed to take after my father and be a Jets fan.

But that year my dad got a call. His brother, my uncle Freddie, was in the hospital. Freddie spent most of his adult life in Philly, and the only thing he loved more than his Iggles was his family. My family and I decided to visit Freddie. He wasn’t doing great. During my two days there I bonded with Freddie like I hadn’t before. On our drive home to New York, Freddie passed away in his sleep. That was when I decided to keep his spirit alive and be an Eagles fan. For Freddie.

—Jake Shubert

* * *

November 6, 1966, against the hated Cowboys. Franklin Field with my dad, who at 85 is still a practicing physician—but was also a photographer who provided the game films for the Eagles. The Cowboys had pasted the Eagles 56-7 a few weeks earlier. But that glorious day Timmy Brown ran back two kickoffs for touchdowns and the Eagles won, 24-23. As a child nothing felt better than beating the Cowboys, and nothing tasted more bitter than losing to them, which was all too frequent. To this day I couldn’t care less about losing the 1980 Super Bowl because we beat the Cowboys in the NFC Championship Game that year. I can close my eyes and still see Wilbert Montgomery running free to the end zone.

Years later I had the pleasure of representing the Staubach Company and met Roger. He was my client, but I could not help telling him how much I hated him as a child. He took out an 8 x 10 photo of himself in his Cowboys uniform and wrote on it: “ Robb, sorry I ruined so many Sundays for you.” Despite his wit and class, I still bleed Eagles’ green and hate the Star.

—Robert Fox

* * *

San Francisco 49ers
I loved watching heroes like Montana, Rice, Craig, Young, Watters, Owens, Garcia, Gore, Willis, Smith and Bowman. The players fade but the torch is passed on to new men who give their all for the team colors. And I love those colors too; they bring back the little kid in me when I first saw them play—the metallic gold with red and white. I loved the look of Candlestick in the afternoon West Coast light. I loved the theater; a cross of nostalgic new age gladiatorial sportsmen.

I still love turning on the TV (or internet now) and seeing that first shot of the arena. I loved Coach Harbaugh: truculent; demanding; a man who put his players and team first. I love Coach Tomsula and hope he can overcome the stigma of being a man with little pedigree. His enthusiasm is just as enthralling as Harbaugh’s yet expressed so differently. I love the desire to win—nothing else is good enough.

—Josh Slocum

* * *

I remember visiting my grandparents, sitting in their smoke-filled house watching a football game with my grandma. She was sitting to my right, a kitchen timer in one hand and pointing to the screen with the other, saying, “Look at how he [Joe Montana] looks at all of his receivers before he throws the ball.” And moments later, Montana zipped a pass over the middle after surveying the field. “Now, look at how he throws the ball before the receiver even turns around.”

Again, Montana and his receiver obliged. I was only 8 years old and barely understood the game, but I could tell my grandma knew what she was talking about, and I knew the 49ers were a great team. I was hooked on football, and although I didn’t know it at the time, I had forever aligned myself with the 49ers. My grandma passed away a few years later, but her observations on the game of football left a lasting impression on me. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t cheering on the 49ers, and my fandom and their success has always been a part of my life. My sons are 3 and 1 right now, but their football education has already started, thanks in large part to my grandma and the resurgence of the 49ers.

—Brad Sturdivant

* * *

Should I write Joe Montana over and over? Or split the words between him and Steve Young? But that means Jerry Rice should get some love. John Taylor won them a Super Bowl. But Bill Walsh probably won them four? He needs at least a quarter of the words. Lest we forget Ronnie Lott and Keena Turner or Roger Craig and Tom Rathman. But are we going to live in the past or can we talk about Frank Gore and Patrick Willis? But I guess that’s the past now too. What does the future hold? Only management and its hand-picked coach know.

The fans have faith, but the doubting Thomases are just as loud. The team needs a leader, always has. At this point our leader is mostly unproven, and our players are mostly untested. But that’s an amateur’s view. The coach has coached before and the players have played. I love this team because I believed in Joe’s arm but now I love them because I know it’s so much more than just Kap’s. I’m ready for the ride come hell or high water. I’m ready for the season that will reveal all.

—Jose Cabrera

* * *

During 49er telecasts, my friends—and, sadly, my wife and adult sons—pretty much know to avoid me and my frightening mood swings. Only Briley, my nearly 14-year-old golden retriever, sticks by me. And that's largely because he's lost his hearing.

—Barry Shiller

* * *

Seattle Seahawks
Back in ’99 I was at a Sonics game. I didn’t own any Sonics garb, so I wore a Shawn Springs jersey. I had to use the bathroom before tipoff, and as I got to the urinal I hear someone loudly announce, “Shawn Springs? He’s pretty good!” The man decided to occupy the urinal next to mine, and I instinctively took a glance at him. My first thought was, Why is he next to me? There are 10 urinals. Isn’t there some kind of unspoken rule about this? After my initial thought, my brain recognized that this man with the horrible bathroom etiquette was none other than Shawn Springs.

So there I was, 14 years old and peeing next to my favorite Seahawk. What do I do? What do I say? So I turned my head toward him—making sure to look up at his face, again my bathroom etiquette was world class—and I proudly told him how many interceptions I got using him in Madden. He let out a hearty chuckle and gave me a friendly pat on my head. He never washed his hands. But here I am, 16 years later and still a fan. That’s devotion.

—Steve Nam

* * *

Three Reasons Why I love the Seahawks:

1. Shared Origins. The Hawks and I were born in the same year, 1976, in the Northwest. In our home, there wasn't money for many extras, but every couple of years my dad would get us out to a game at the Kingdome. One of my first pictures is wearing a Jim Zorn jersey; my little brother had the replica Curt Warner uniform—the real Curt Warner, not the Super Bowl-winning Kurt Warner. On the playground, I inevitably was Steve Largent, making up in route-running precision what I lacked in speed, quickness and, for that matter, skill.

2. Staffing for Steve Largent. When I ended up in D.C. as a staffer on Capitol Hill, Steve Largent did as well. Ultimately I served as a legislative assistant for him and found that my childhood idol was even cooler than I could have expected. In his congressional office he kept just one commemorative football. Another staffer and I "kidnapped" it and had friends around the world write letters to Steve as though they were his football. "Steve—Enjoying Paris. Here I am in front of the Eiffel Tower. Best, Your Football." He loved it.

3. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. I moved away from the Northwest more than 20 years ago, serving as a speechwriter on Capitol Hill, a business consultant, a nonprofit head and now an advisor to philanthropists around the world. Throughout my travels, and through some very lean years, I've become a more adamant fan of the Seahawks. We may be the only family in D.C. that flies the 12th Man flag on game day. I try to get back to Seattle for a game a year and am now raising my four kids to love the Hawks.

—Cameron Doolittle

* * *

My basement walls are covered in Seahawks signs, posters and memorabilia. My license plates read XLVIII (unfortunately I couldn't switch them to XLIX, but that's another story I'm still not fully prepared to talk about). I haven't painted the house blue and green yet because I value my marriage, but there's time. The past two Super Bowls have brought the local paper and the local NBC news affiliate to my house to see just how crazy I am about the Hawks. Go ahead, Google KTIV and Jamey LaFleur, I'll wait…Yeah, pretty good piece they did on me, right?!

—Jamey LaFleur

* * *

Tampa Bay Buccaneers
The strongest woman I've ever known, my mother, divorced my dad when I was very young, packed everything we could carry into one car and moved my sister and me from New England to a town I’d never heard of named Tampa. Because my dad had not been a positive influence in my life, my mother was always looking for male role models who could help mentor me. As a teacher, my mom befriended some wonderful men (and women of course). One of these men invited me to my first football game, at the old Sombrero in Tampa, an event that changed my life forever.

The year was 1977, I was 9 years old, and we were playing the St. Louis Cardinals. I still vividly recall the fan frenzy as the Bucs won their first home game in franchise history, and I became a fan for life. Two years later I sat in a torrential rainstorm, never even thinking of leaving my seat, and marveled as the Bucs clinched their first playoff berth with a 3-0 win over the Chiefs. I cried with joy that night as we left the stadium to the “Hey Hey Tampa Bay…” song—still one of my all-time favorites.

My mom, a three-time cancer survivor, is the reason I love the Buccaneers. A season-ticket holder from the time I could afford it in 1993, I raise a glass for her every football game I attend, thanking her for having the courage to leave everything behind and to start over and build a new, wonderful life for her family. For me, that life will always include the Buccaneers.

—Steve Levinson

* * *

Washington Redskins
… I’ve watched people change the channel from the Redskins game to the ending of “Marley & Me” to keep themselves from crying.


—Zack Wiblemo

* * *

To be a fan of the Washington Redskins Football Club is to live backward while stumbling forward. I cheer for an outdated, offensive logo that I have grown uncomfortable to claim. I tepidly defend a reviled owner. I start to use the phrase “wait till next year” in mid-September.

But, oh, how I love my team. Loving the Burgundy and Gold is an exercise in being optimistically embarrassed. We are not a bandwagon fandom. Our stadium is not hosting Super Bowls, our players aren’t featured in national commercials, our last Lombardi trophy came with the first Gulf War. A Washington fan is a devoted masochist in a traded player’s jersey. But hey, it’s better than being an Eagles fan.

Every year, every game, every draft, every score:

I follow.

I cheer.

I hope.

—Sarah S. Spooner

* * *

Baltimore Ravens
Michelangelo. Mozart. Shakespeare. Ozzie Newsome.

That’s why I love the Ravens.

Many GMs have the grace of Hulk when handling modern-day NFL nuances such as the salary cap and draft management; but Newsome is Baryshnikov, artistically moving as he assembles a competitive roster year after year after year. Steve Smith and sixth-rounder Adalius Thomas are just two of Ozzie’s many masterpieces. It’s why we Ravens fans say, “In Ozzie we trust.” We have 10 playoff trips this millennium, along with two Super Bowl trophies, but even in years when I don’t feel confident, it’s always: “You never know; Ozzie’s got something up his sleeve.”

—Mark Strausberg

* * *

To put it simply, Baltimore has a serious inferiority complex driven by years of industrial decline and a crime/crack wave that has persisted since the 1980s (not to mention the theft of the beloved Colts in 1983). The riots after Freddie Gray's death at the hands of the BPD reminded the world that Baltimore is a dirty, unsafe place, not ready for the reurbanization that has turned other American cities around.

Yet we have the Ravens, a respectable organization that has been on top of the league for almost all of its 19 years in the NFL. The Ravens unify the city: black, white, men, women, old, young, wealthy, poor. Everyone wears purple and black. Almost everyone wears purple camouflage. Everyone is proud of the upstart franchise that carries the city on its back every season, giving everyone in the Baltimore area a taste of hope and an escape from reality.

—J.D. from Baltimore

* * *

Buffalo Bills

I love the Bills because they’ve instilled in me, as a fan, resiliency. Now, that sounds ridiculous, but we don’t care. It’s a Buffalo thing.

Go back to Wide Right and watch the throngs of Buffalonians assure Scott Norwood that we forgive him. I haven’t seen a Bills playoff game since Frank Wycheck out-forward-passed Rob Johnson. (Stephen Hawking could pick me up in a time machine, put me on the field in Tennessee and illustrate all the ways he thinks it was a lateral. He would be wrong.)

I’ve gone into all 16 (SIXTEEN!) seasons since then with a Billy Mumphrey-esque cockeyed optimism that this is our year.

I was exposed to four straight losing Super Bowls. And I’m glad I was. Because when we win the big one—oh man. Don’t get me going on what Canalside will look like.

I saw our franchise’s greatest player get diagnosed with a ravaging form of cancer in the same breath as our owner (see: anchor) passed away. And I never imagined a Buffalo without the Bills. The Mayflowers would’ve had a better chance of boating over Lake Erie than of driving out of town. I love the Bills because they aren’t an NFL team, they’re Buffalo’s Team.

I have been proverbially punched in the mouth as a fan more times than I should care to recall. But I love recalling it. In life, I’ve lost. A lot. Just like anyone else in my city. But I love recalling those moments, too. Because the Bills have taught me that, just like this team, just like this city, I can get absolutely walloped, stand up, dust off and press on. And as a Bills fan, believe me, I can do this for another 16 years.

—Louis Sedia

* * *

Quick, name the NFL franchises that represent New York.

“The New York Jets and the New York Giants.”

[Long Pause]

“Oh, and the Bills.”

Oh, and the Bills. Much like the sprawling hills and soft fields of the Upstate it calls home, the Bills are relegated to an afterthought when the outside world considers the concrete jungle of the five boroughs—the only “New York” there is. To trek beyond the Bills’ immediate region is to endure blank stares when you discuss your team and to abandon all hope of securing new gear adorned with the red-streaked charging buffalo.

Yes, I’m looking for a Buffalo Bills hat. Yes, I realize I’m in Dallas. No, we’re not moving to Toronto. Probably not, anyway. The stadium? It’s called The Ralph. Yes, exactly like the slang term for vomit. No, it is nothing like that cavernous space ship Mr. Jones landed in a parking lot for you guys here. No, Giants stuff won’t do.

And therein lies the beauty of the Buffalo Bills. There are no bandwagon fans; only an intimate community of those driving their own wagons, constantly circling to protect our own, always on the cusp of being seen through the dust.

—Daniel Jensen

* * *

Since the last time my team made the playoffs, I got my driver’s license, graduated high school, started college, graduated college, moved to NYC and got a job, moved to Singapore and got a new job, moved to Denver and got a new job, and got married. I haven’t lived in Buffalo in 13 years, but my heart unquestionably resides there and will continue to do so until… well, until forever thanks to Uncle/Saint/whatever-you-want-to-call-him Terry [Pegula]. In my painful years of Bills fandom, so many great things have happened in my life, and the one thing that I still long for is a chance to watch my team in the postseason.

Not to say that winning a Super Bowl would be better than marrying my husband—but… well…he’s a Seahawks fan, and I think he’d be OK if I said, “It’d sure be close.” Since I left Buffalo 13 years ago, I’ve watched at local bars, at 2 a.m. in Singapore before work on Monday mornings, even raced out of a wedding to a bar nearby to catch the end of the first time the Bills beat the Pats in eight years. Like all Bills fans, I’m hopelessly in love and passionately devoted until… forever. Why? Call me crazy (you won’t be the first).

—Stacie Campbell

* * *

I'm a 43-year-old autoworker from South Buffalo, and I've been a Bills fan since I was able to walk. During the mid ’80s my love for the team grew, even as they were going through some lean years. But it was because of those lean years that I was able to purchase game tickets on a paperboy's salary. My goal every year was to make it to the Miami game, our most heated rival at the time. I'd always say, "If you win one game a year, please let it be Miami!" As the ’80s turned to ’90s, the town was abuzz with what the Bills were doing. On Sunday afternoons, streets were desolate, and the only sounds you heard were fans cheering from inside their house parties.

My life memories are ones many people have: my wedding day, the birth of my children, and the birth of my grandchild. The rest of my memories were made from my bench seat in the tunnel end zone, section 123: 51-3 over the Raiders, 10-7 over John Elway and the Broncos, The Greatest Comeback, Doug Flutie bootleg to beat the Jags. The Bills will always be a major part of my life, and like always, we're about to start a new season, with a new regime and new hope!

—Dennis Filer

* * *

Cleveland Browns
In high school, I remember a class where we discussed the power of the phrase “I am.” Even now, as an adult, it’s a concept I still consider from time to time. I wonder who I am today, who I was, who I will be. And though my life is ever-changing, there’s been one constant: I am a Browns fan.

It’s hard to fully express what that means to someone who hasn’t felt the frigid sting of Lake Erie’s December breath on his tear-stained cheeks. At times it’s almost like being a service dog for a combat veteran. Through rose-colored glasses of loyalty and compassion, we can still see what was once great about our beloved organization—and what could be again if only we could get beyond our shell-shocked past.

—Dan Maloney


* * *

Irrational glee for the Browns is what makes it great. That common passion with the stranger next to you. You both know it won’t end well, but you believe anyway. You share the joy of one victory over the Steelers. That’s our Super Bowl, and we’ll enjoy it together until next year.

—Patrick Miller

* * *

The more difficult question to answer is: Why do I STILL love the Browns? Art Modell took my team away, and the Browns haven’t shown even a modicum of decency since their return. Why do I still pull out the VCR to watch the 51-0 beatdown of the Steelers from 1989 every year, and secretly hope that the Cavs lose so the Browns can be the team that brings a championship back to my city?

I can sum it up this way. The last words that my grandfather spoke to me on his death bed were, “I pray to God that they fire that Pat Shurmur. He’s a bum.” Amen.

—John Newbrough

* * *

Cincinnati Bengals
Here’s the thing—and this is really the sum of the matter—I AM a Bengals fan. It’s who I am. Born in Dayton, mocked by the chuckleheads who love the word “Bungles,” I grew up listening to our blacked-out games on 700 WLW. When our playoff drought ended in 2005, my heart soared with joy. Then Kimo von Oelhoffen assassinated that joy and dragged it through the streets as Dave Lapham wailed in agony.

That’s what it is to be a Bengals fan. It’s illogical love and passion in the face of unmitigated disaster, disaster that defines and molds us into who we are. We’re hard as nails in Cincinnati, fused together by a love that perseveres the most gutting moments. And there’s a void inside of us, just waiting for that moment when it’ll beour hero hitting a receiver in the back of the end zone with 34 seconds left in the Super Bowl.

—Reggie Osborne II

* * *

Denver Broncos
Gramps’s heart couldn’t take it. Literally.

A lifelong Broncos fan and season ticket holder when it was just known as Mile High, Gramps resided in the South Stands. The place where steel-toed boots helped on the metal bleachers; where vocal strength (aided by Peppermint Schnapps) was a must; and where a man stood naked in a barrel. But when they remodeled the stadium, Gramps was priced out. That’s when the doctor gave him even worse news.

He complained of occasional chest pains and, after some digging, the doc figured out that they usually occurred on Sundays. During games. When Denver was losing. So Granny’s job was to keep him upstairs, away from the TV. My job was to give him “selective” play-by-play and score updates. The Doc said he’d live a lot longer that way.

And boy was he right. For 20-plus wonderful years he swore behind a closed bedroom door while someone yelled the updates. I can still hear those muffled groans, “That g-ddamn Cutler! Why can’t he protect the *#@ing ball?!?!”

Point being: I’ve given more Broncos updates than the four-letter network.

—Benjamin Burdick

* * *

Houston Texans
Texans lore is not something anyone can boast of boasted of (yet). My grandfather could not reminisce to me of a rich Houston Texans history of achievement. One day, however, I will have the opportunity to regale my grandchildren with the pure ecstasy of David Carr, Seth Payne and company’s inaugural season-opening victory against the utterly detested, cross-state rival Dallas Cowboys; of Kevin Walter’s game-winning touchdown catch against the Cincinnati Bengals to clinch the franchise’s first division title; of J.J. Watt’s pick-six against Andy Dalton in the franchise’s first playoff win; of witnessing the incredible achievements of the likes of Andre Johnson, Arian Foster and Watt; and, of course, the awe inspiring Super Bowl win in… well, that is a chapter yet to be written.

—Davis Stewart

* * *

Indianapolis Colts

The Indianapolis Colts are the stretched fabric that holds my fall and winter together. They make it possible for me to hug my mom from over 1,000 miles away, and to high-five my little brother across the country in Manhattan. This team keeps me connected to the parts of my past and future that are the most precious to me. I have lived all over the continent—Chicago, Costa Rica, Washington D.C., Denver. My saddest football moment came in an empty bar in Guatemala as I watched New England cornerbacks repeatedly tackle Marvin Harrison at the line of scrimmage. When my favorite football player ever decided to follow me to Denver, I could have swapped my blue No. 18 jersey for an orange one… but I went online and ordered a blue No. 12.

—Andre Couvillion

* * *

Jacksonville Jaguars

In the 20-season existence of the Jacksonville Jaguars, I've experienced the highest of highs—greeting the Cinderella second-year "Jagwads" on the tarmac after the thrilling playoff upset in Denver—to the lowest of lows—three separate rebuilding efforts since 2008. I've endured weekly NFL power rankings in the bottom five and stories ranging from "Jags Moving to [Insert City Here]" to "Jags Punter Gets Axed." (Sigh…) From the first game my father took me to as a 5-year-old in 1995, however, I was hooked.

We've been an easy target in the media for much of the last decade, and I still get confused looks when people see me sporting Jaguars gear outside of Northeast Florida, but neither distance nor lack of on-field success can ever make me abandon my home team. I’ll continue to make the five-hour drive every home weekend to keep my seven-season home streak alive, and I’ll continue to lose my voice in the stands.

I’ve heard one has to endure the hard seasons in order to truly appreciate the great ones. The triumvirate of Shad Khan, Dave Caldwell and Gus Bradley has breathed new life into the fan base, and, like much of the Jaguar faithful, I'm ready to start appreciating again.

—Michael Backherms

* * *

Growing up in New Jersey, I always get asked this question: How did you become a Jaguars fan? This is my best and only response: I played Pop Warner for the Jackson Jaguars in 1996, a year after a brand-new team with a very similar name came to be, and in 1996 they happened to be pretty good. I decided then that this was my team through thick and thin. As goofy and ridiculous as that sounds, it is one of the best decisions I have ever made, and I will never regret it.

—Dennis DeFilippo

* * *

Kansas City Chiefs
One autumn when I was 9, I watched Joe Delaney run and fell in love. Joe was gone a year later, and I wept. But there was no going back. With Derrick [Thomas] and Neil [Smith], glory seemed attainable. Joe Montana’s arrival was a dream. But K.C. Joe was like autumn, too—fading, beautiful and never truly ours. His exit signaled the start of the great winter, where hope gave way to Bono, Gannon, Grbac and Green, before spiraling ultimately to the nadir of Orton. But as every summer wanes, the restless passions of boyhood yearning stir anew.

So I will believe that this is the year when Alex Smith rises above “game manager.” I will roar with Tamba Hali and Justin Houston. I will believe that Jeremy Maclin’s knees were simply allergic to Philadelphia. From the distant peaks of northern Arizona, where I live in self-imposed exile from the Midwest, I will close my eyes each Sunday and summon the Arrowhead parking lot, and the red and gold leaves brilliantly shrouding the river, and I will know this: The Chiefs return each autumn, as do I, and we owe each other nothing. This is how I can tell it is love.

—Nate Cairney

* * *

Miami Dolphins
In 2007 the Miami Dolphins nearly became the first NFL franchise to record twoperfect seasons. One day after a miracle overtime TD (and an assist from a Ray Lewis injury) saved us from becoming the first ever 0-16 team, I wore my orange creamsicle Ricky Williams jersey out on the streets of Boston in celebration of avoiding that ignominious fate. The Patriots fans I saw in public laughed. They were mostly young and giddy in the glow of an ascendant franchise making its own bid for perfection. Only one old-timer wearing a throwback sweatshirt gave me a nod of approval. I like to think he understood that the measure of fandom isn’t how loudly you cheer when you win, but how you root when they don’t.


—Gordon Rowe

* * *

I am, without a doubt, the most knowledgeable and passionate Miami Dolphins fan in the city of Fort Atkinson, Wis., population 12,482. I am also miserable.

But it wasn't always like this.

Superbowl XXXI. I'm 7 years old and running from the kitchen to the living room with my heart in my throat. I leap into the only open spot left on the couch, just in time to see Desmond Howard return a kickoff for a touchdown. I sat in that lucky spot for every Packers down for the next four years.

When I was 11, my mom and her then-fiancé, the man who introduced me to football and the Packers, separated. I abandoned football entirely for more than a year, focusing instead on my angst and effortless cool.

When I returned, I decided I needed to forge my own path by choosing a new team—an unthinkable act of rebellion in rural Wisconsin. I chose the Miami Dolphins. I chose Chad Henne over Aaron Rodgers. I chose Ted Ginn Jr. over Jordy Nelson. I chose Cam Cameron and Nick Saban and Tony Sparano. I chose misery over happiness at 12 years old. And every year I choose loyalty.

—Levi Mills

* * *

New England Patriots

I love the New England Patriots because they have given the NFL something it’s lacked for years: a villain. Your modern-day New England Patriots are rogues in cities across the U.S. And that’s the way we like it. They epitomize the region’s culture perfectly. You don’t like us? That’s OK, we’ll see what happens on Sunday. And the best part is that people forget how bad this franchise used to be.

The Pats are your prototypical rags-to-riches story, transforming from the ugly, nerdy girl in high school to the mean-girl supermodel people love to hate. Say what you want about the Belichick-era teams but know this: They’ve succeeded through hard work and clever thinking. Sure, they’ve had a few lucky bounces (literally), like a certain conscientious QB from Michigan falling to them at pick No. 199. But they’ve also created their own luck. They turned a former Kent State QB into an elite receiver and an undrafted cornerback into a Super Bowl hero. They don’t get it right all the time, but no team does. But they come out on top more often than not, and I can’t wait to see them compete for another title this season.

—Chris South

* * *

It's the little things that make a person fall in love. For me, it was a slow awakening: to the subtle charm of a Bill Belichick press conference; to the big-man grace of Vince Wilfork; to the earnest effectiveness of the “Patriots Way”; to the classy veneer (and steely underbelly) of Robert Kraft; and to the heart-pounding realization that we should never, ever, ever, ever give up on Tom Brady. Every time the Pats drove themselves into a hole then dragged themselves back out, I fell a little more deeply.

Like any hardcore fan, I hold football beliefs on a profound level. Peyton Manning and Aaron Rodgers are very, very good, but they're not Tommy. Just no to the Jets (but Rex Ryan might be an OK guy). Mike Tomlin definitely interfered with Jacoby Jones' touchdown run in that 2013 game. Ben Roethlisberger, Incognito, Ray Rice, Adrian Peterson: I have no time for these guys.

I like my coaches and players to demonstrate their integrity—which makes this a particularly interesting year for me. Will my love affair with the Pats survive? I only know this: Love grows stronger when it's tested and triumphs.

—Melissa Joulwan

* * *

This past season after Miami upset the Pats in their opener, I ceased drinking my morning coffee from my Patriots mug. After Butler snatched Super Bowl 49 out of mid-air, I put the mug in a bag, hit it with a rock, and buried it.

—Kris Lavery

* * *

The hoodie sends a message that you don’t care what people think. It’s durable and can handle any conditions: Wash, spin, and soak. Yes, new things will come along, but the hoodie will always be your favorite. The frayed cut-off sleeves give off the impression of rebelliousness; you’re going to do things your way. There’s a comfort when you put it on, you know what to expect and it will always deliver. Yes, it’s had a controversial past, but it’s an American icon.

—Alex Benton

* * *

Tom Brady.

I thought about submitting just those two words. After all, 15 years worth of English classes have taught me never to add fluff to an essay. Never add nonsense or unnecessary detail just to get to a page or word limit. The rest of what I’m about to write is simply that: filler. There is not much else that needs to be said when talking about what I consider my generation’s Evil Empire, the New England Patriots. So much praise is heaped on Bill Belichick for his Patriots Way: for his ability to take on troubled players and get so much out of them; for his uncanny way of making players buy in to the system; for his power to make the players simply do their job. That is all true, but the fact is, without Tom Brady none of that would be possible.

Simply put, without Tom Brady, Bill Belichick is not Bill Belichick. Hell, the New England Patriots might be the Hartford Patriots. Tom Brady is the quarterback of every fan’s dream. All this is coming from a 21-year-old who has a signed Drew Bledsoe Jersey in his room and who absolutely wanted to have it out with Mr. Belichick when he replaced my idol with some kid named Tom Brady.

—Connor Ford

* * *

I can’t explain why I woke up at 2 am while on deployment in Djibouti to watch the Patriots lose the Jan. 2007 AFC Championship Game in a plywood shed. I also can’t explain why I watched an undefeated season slip away alone in my bedroom, instead of with my Super Bowl Party guests. If I can’t get my wife to understand why I hide in the basement for 16 Sundays each fall, then there’s no chance I can do it here.

There’s only a finite window in which any team can have sustained success. I know the window will close for the Patriots, so I watch, waiting for that one season when I know it’s over. But the window hasn’t closed. Brady and Belichick won’t let it. I tried to close it after the Wells Report came out. I even uttered the words that my wife longed to hear: “I’m done with football.” I didn’t stay away for long. Dejection turned to defiance, which turned to arrogance. I’m back to being the type of overconfident Patriots fan that other fans loathe. I’ll be busy 19 Sundays this Fall. The Patriots have a title to defend.

— Rich Parella

* * *

New York Jets
I love the Jets because my dad loves the Jets, and for that he has apologized repeatedly. He says he gave me the Yankees to make up for it, but the truth of the matter is, the crushing defeats have brought us together as much as, if not more than, the World Series championships. It’s amazing how the sacred father-daughter relationship can be strengthened by the repeated failures of a favorite team. Through his Jets fandom, Dad has taught me faith, tolerance and patience—lessons valuable for the preservation of my sports sanity as well as in everyday life. I get an annual email on January 12 to commemorate the Jets’ last moment of glory—the memory of Super Bowl III that Dad holds on to in a way that makes me think, deep down inside, that he’s not sure he will ever see it again.

—Kara G. Lemberger

* * *

This isn’t a team for the shiny metropolis where fans throw sports coats over their shoulders and loosen their ties on their way into the stadium after enjoying a few martinis at a steakhouse. The Jets are the dive bar next door with the cheap beers and baskets of wings that you wear your grease stained Joe Klecko jersey to.

Publicly, Jets fans don’t love being Jets fans. They sulk and talk of their Green and White burden to bear. Yet when Sundays come, there is nowhere they’d rather be than in that dark metaphorical dive bar with a roomful of like-minded individuals. There is only one Super Bowl trophy in that bar, but there has never been a more important one in helping turn the Super Bowl into the game it became. So it should count for three or four, right?

—Joe Caporoso


* * *

Oakland Raiders
At 13 years old, I had to have my right leg amputated. It had been deformed from birth, and it was time to cut my losses. In this tumultuous part of my life, my aunt contacted the Raiders, telling them about my situation in a Los Angeles hospital and that I was just getting into the game of football. The Raiders sent a package for me containing photos of greats like Tim Brown and Rich Gannon and books and films on the team’s history, and they even sent me Christmas cards for a few straight years. They had a chance to make me a fan for life, and it’s exactly what they did.

—Ethan Bailey

* * *

Back in 1970, a few Kansas City Chiefs players refused to give my Dad an autograph because he wasn’t with the group they were at the hotel to sign for. So my dad did the only reasonable thing: become a fan of their biggest rival, the mighty Oakland Raiders. Of course, my two older brothers and I had no other choice but to become lifelong fans. I was born in 1991, so my years as a fan haven’t been easy. When John Gruden came along, it was perfect timing for me to really get into the game. Those few years really made me fall in love with the Raiders. (It also made me hate New England so dearly.)

It's almost fun being a Raider fan living in the middle of Kansas. I've been fortunate to go to Arrowhead three times and see the Raiders win twice. Most people hate the Raiders, and even if they're only winning four games a year, those four are oh so sweet. It's now 2015. The Jack Del Rio era has begun, and there is new hope. While I don't think there will be any Super Bowl runs this year, I'll be in front of my TV every Sunday, cheering on the Silver and Black. I'll still be around when they return to glory, and it will be a glorious time to be a fan.

—Jackson McCarty

* * *

Pittsburgh Steelers

My team gave me the fondest memory I have of my distant, difficult, Pittsburgh-born dad: watching and celebrating Super Bowl XLIII only months before he died of cancer. Since then, each game brings a wave of nostalgia and comfort. I know he’s watching too.

—Wendy Wolf

* * *

I was born in South Korea and raised in an orphanage until I was about 9 years old, when I was brought to the U.S. by newly adopted parents from Western Pennsylvania. They gave me my name, parental love and guidance, and the Steelers. For me, football and the Steelers were the two best ways to make friends in this new country and become an American.

—Christopher Staaf

* * *

Football matters. And nothing matters more than the Stillers winning and physically pounding the crap out of the opponent. I want to see the opponent bloody and limping, grieving, shaking their heads, wondering who was that masked man. When two AFC North opponents play each other, someone asks me who I root for. My answer is, “Pain and suffering on both sides of the ball.” To have seen the Stillers greats leave the field in victory, to have seen Cowboys and Vikings, Rutigliano and Schottenheimer and Wyche and Billick and Bellichik and Brian Sipe and Ray Lewis leave the field in defeat, disgust, bitterness, . . . ah, man, life is so beautiful.

—Bob Baginski

* * *

Some of my earliest memories are watching Steelers games with my father and grandfather. As a young boy I had a deal with my short-tempered grandfather that every time he swore I got a dime. After a week of heavy losses, Pap started to swear in Croatian to avoid the fine, but I caught on, and my piggy bank only grew. So watching the Steelers at that age not only entertained me, but also helped me make money. What’s not to love?

—Bob Ladika

* * *

Twas the day of Steelers season, Fall had arrived,
In the land of bridges, where sandwiches have fries.
UPMC's sign sat high above the trees,
A "non-profit business, with no employees."

Some yinzers were hung over, snug in their beds,
Last night’s Primanti’s wrappers strewn by their heads.
Some drove to the North Shore, over potholes galore,
While cursing the never-ending tunnel detours.

Tailgates roared on, it was a Black and Gold sea,
And between every car, was a river of pee.
"Ten minutes to kickoff!" a pantsless drunk cheered,
I ran through Gate A, and bought a nine-dollar beer.

On to my seat, a two-foot hotdog in tow,
Time to experience the Mike Tomlin show.
More rapid than Eagles, his players they came,
And he shouted their names, popping out his neck vein.

"Now Pouncey! Now, Miller! Now, Taylor and Johnson!
On, Beachum! Not Adams! Now go, Cortez Allen!”
He deferred the kickoff, “tails” decided the fall,
“THE STANDARD IS THE STANDARD" beckoned his call. ...

Back on the sidelines, Tomlin was slapping Ben's ass,
It was man-code for "that was one hell of a pass",
And I heard him exclaim, words sent down from Heaven,
"THIS IS THE FIRST STEP, ON THE STAIRWAY TO SEVEN!"

—Mike Markovich

* * *

San Diego Chargers
Growing up a San Diego kid, I’ve been around Chargers football all my life. Yet that’s not how my love for the team came about. Ironically, I started rooting against the Chargers because I knew it was a great way to get under my stepdad’s skin. Enduring the L*%f era didn’t inspire much fanaticism either, believe it or not. It wasn’t until the Chargers took a beating like they did in 2000, going 1-15, that I suddenly developed admiration and pride for a team that could not have it worse. I suppose 0-16 was possible, but back in 2000 I felt pride in knowing that these are “the bad times,” and many wouldn’t dare to jump on this bandwagon.

Yet I knew there would be light at the other end. The drafting of LaDainian Tomlinson fulfilled this prophecy. Watching this young man put this franchise on his back (along with Drew Brees in 2002) and dedicating himself to do all that he could to bring a Lombardi Trophy to my town was as astonishing and inspirational as his actual play. Simply put, L.T. made me believe, and I am forever grateful.

—Alfred Yucupicio Aguite

* * *

I am a Chargers fan. We are a pathetic lot, forever being taunted with “I thought you guys were supposed to be good this year?" We've never won a Super Bowl, and my husband says it's because our city is so darn pretty, it wouldn't be fair to be blessed with a championship ring.

I don't have that luxury. I haven't lived full-time in my hometown for almost 25 years. So why do I bleed powder blue? Because I watched my Chargers squish the fish in an epic game in 1981, when Kellen Winslow probably cemented the fact I was destined to marry a tight end. Because of Air Coryell and a bearded man named Fouts. Junior Seau made us believe, and the tears that fell when he died were some of the truest I've shed. Philip Rivers' histrionic game face.

For almost 10 years I walked the halls of my school (in Seahawksland, mind you!) with a Chargers lanyard around my neck. My family and I have just relocated to St. Louis, and I will continue paying exorbitant fees to DirecTV so I can watch every game. This may be our year... and our final year in San Diego. I'll jump off that bridge when we get there.

—Melissa Varvil

* * *

The graceful gait of Alworth. The fiery determination of Fouts. The explosive energy of Seau. The ethereal moves of L.T. The passionate persona of Rivers. Great players and memorable moments abound for a diehard Chargers fan like me. The eternally optimistic, devoted supporter in me greets each training camp with confidence that this will be the year to win it all, that this team is the one—even if evidence suggests otherwise. With pride I watch players go to battle each Sunday for the Chargers, for the fans of San Diego.

I admit to rising frustration in observing an organization that appears ready to leave town, as well as deep disappointment in a local government that seems incapable of procuring a stadium deal. The threat of the Chargers moving to L.A. tests my resolve, but will not extinguish my love for the team, for the players who give their all. Short of a Super Bowl win, there is nothing greater than to see the Bolts defeat hated (but respected) rivals in the Broncos, Chiefs and Raiders. Given the maelstrom that has enveloped the Chargers this year, I will be cheering on the team with even greater emotion and urgency this season.


—Jeff Bauman

* * *

Everyone knows that the Chargers are leaving next year, and frankly no one really cares. That’s what San Diego fans do: When our team loses, it’s OK. We’ll just go to the beach or run up Torrey Pines or take a stroll through Balboa Park.

I was born and raised on the East Coast, in the shadow of the Meadowlands, but never cared for the Giants or the Jets. The Jets were a Long Island team as far as I was concerned. I moved to San Diego in 2001 and have been a Chargers fan ever since.

I love the Chargers like any Chargers fan does: fairweather. It’s San Diego. We’ve got better things to do than sit inside and eat steak tips talking about the Pats or the Bills. We cheer on our team when we're winning, and we don’t really care when they're losing.

I am a Chargers fan.

—Matt Archer

* * *

Tennessee Titans
Why do I love the Tennessee Titans? In large part because here in the South football is our birthright. We may not have invented it, but we believe we have perfected it.

The NFL is a new invention compared to the history and passion of college football in the South, with rivalries dating back to the late 1800s. Football in America is king, and he speaks with a Southern accent.

Unlike the college game, which is dominated by coaches, the NFL is driven by quarterbacks. The relevance of your team and even your town is directly correlated to who your QB is. The tragic death of Steve McNair, the failure of Vince Young and injuries to Jake Locker have left the Titans boring and bland.

Enter Heisman trophy winner Marcus Mariota. His physical tools and character have already set Nashville on fire. His jersey was the No. 1 seller in the NFL for the month of May. That is tangible evidence of a franchise being relevant again! Now comes the hard part—keeping Mariota healthy and transitioning his game to the NFL game. That will make the Titans, for the first time in a long time, must-see viewing in 2015 .

—Steve Strout

 

[-X-]

The Rams are in my blood. They have been since 1978. They have been since I was 8 and wrote Vince Ferragamo a letter of condolence after Super Bowl XIV and he wrote back with an autographed photo. I was crushed when he went to the CFL—and elated when he returned a year later. The Rams are Sundays in front of the TV in the 1980s with my Dad.

They’re games high in the stands at Anaheim in the early ’90s during college. I’ve gone to see them play in L.A., Arizona, Foxboro (New Englanders love seeing a token Rams fan; it’s like I’m a unicorn), St. Louis, and more. I loved them in L.A. and in St. Louis and can honestly say I don’t care where they end up in in 2016. I can recite Rams statistics from memory, like Dickerson’s 6,968 yards in his first four seasons. I’m entering season 38 following and loving this team.

—Will Milano

That's a lot like me. Minus the feel-good dad moments and being in Anaheim.
And, you know, never going to Foxboro ... because I'd just end up in jail there.

 

[Memento]

That's a lot like me. Minus the feel-good dad moments and being in Anaheim.
And, you know, never going to Foxboro ... because I'd just end up in jail there.

Agreed. Except in my case...it would probably be vandalism...of Gillette Stadium.

 

[bwdenverram]

Sadly I can't remember the exact year (think 91 or 92) but I was at the game against the packers in Anaheim. Remember the "magic" man Don Majkowski? Rams were up 38-0 at half. The stadium wasn't very full but I didn't care. It was a beautiful sunny day in SoCal and the rams were killing it.

Well, they hung on 41-38. Yeah, talk about blowing a lead. But man was it fun to watch regardless.
Starting watching when I was 7 years old, 1979/80 season. I've broken a few remotes and cursed at the TV more than I care to admit.
I don't care if they are in St. Louis, LA or Mars for all I care. I'll be a die hard fan til I can't see, hear or swear anymore.

 

[RhodyRams]

I have actually had some good times at Gillette... especially when the RAMS beat them in the preseason. I was wearing my SJ39 jersey and wifey had on her pick 39 also. Sitting in the endzone when GZ kicked the FG to win 35-34... everyone around me just shut right the fuck up.

There was one clown behind me yapping the whole game. As the game went on and people started to leave, he was getting drunker and drunker and moving a few rows down closer to me.. Finally he was right behind me yapping in my ear and my buddy says "I wonder if this guy realizes you could throw bundles of shingles around like they are loafs of bread, and he doesnt weigh much more that 100 lbs " He shut up quick, and wasnt there at the end of the game

 

[JUMAVA68]

That's a lot like me. Minus the feel-good dad moments and being in Anaheim.
And, you know, never going to Foxboro ... because I'd just end up in jail there.

Real close to my story as well been a fan since 1978 when I was 10 years old.And I wouldn't go to foxboro either because there would be a 100% chance I end up in jail.

 

[LesBaker]

In high school, I remember a class where we discussed the power of the phrase “I am.” Even now, as an adult, it’s a concept I still consider from time to time. I wonder who I am today, who I was, who I will be. And though my life is ever-changing, there’s been one constant: I am a Browns fan.

Wow.......

I can sum it up this way. The last words that my grandfather spoke to me on his death bed were, “I pray to God that they fire that Pat Shurmur. He’s a bum.” Amen.

Wow again......

Being from CLE I get what these guys are saying. I'm not a Browns fan, I'm a Rams fan. But I always want the Browns to win regardless of who they are playing, unless of course they are playing the Rams.

 

[Rmfnlt]

It's all about the horns, my friends.

 

[Big Game]

Gotta love all the Stories about why people follow and love there teams!!! Football is back.

Lets have a great season Go Rams!!!!
opcorn:opcorn::cheers::cheers::rockon::rockon::heh::heh::shades::shades::double::double::wabbit::wabbit::banana::banana:

 

[blue4]

Mine is completely different from those stories. I was a fan free agent, destroyed by the loss of the Cardinals, and destroyed again when my backup team the Oilers moved and became the silliest looking team in pro sports. Then the Rams came to my town. I was in the Navy in Norfolk those first 4 years, but it didn't matter. We had a football team again. Win or lose they are my team. Provided of course, they feel the same way. This happens to me a third time I will never forgive the NFL. Three times is ridiculous. They've allowed cheaters to prosper, they've given away our super bowl, they've refused to fix the poor officiating. I can deal with that. But I think three times plus all that is more than a fan can reasonably take. Some may consider that being a bad fan maybe, but I doubt many have walked in my shoes as a 30 year fan.