an idiot at a sports bar

THERE ARE 32 TELEVISION SCREENS within plain sight when you first walk into Champps in Pentagon City, located in downtown Arlington, Virginia. Another 15 screens are hidden around the corner, only visible if you are lucky enough to score a last-minute table on a crisp fall Sunday afternoon. None are smaller than 60 inches, and the biggest one occupies an entire wall, a pool of light spilling from a projector. The screen sizes vary around the sports bar, but they all show the same thing: 22 overpaid sweaty men running around a field chasing a leather-bound spheroid inflated with air. Unless of course, the spheroid is one to two pounds per square inch below the inflation regulations, in which case you can expect 21 months of Twitter feuds, game suspensions, million dollar fines, and a field day for sports journalists everywhere. Smack a price tag on the NFL industry for $61 billion dollars. For reference: McDonald’s, America’s largest global franchise, carries a networth of $61.9 billion dollars. Our country really has a thing for controversial, hormone-enhanced pieces of meat. Oh, yeah, and fast food too. Throw in a little hardy intoxication, some drama, competition, media corruption, and financial exorbitance, and you’ve got yourself some good old-fashioned American fun.
 

THE YOUNG WAITER at Champps showed me and my two male companions to our table. It was sandwiched between two other rambunctious parties and positioned in a way so each of us was facing our own screen to watch. An aroma of stale Bud Light and ranch dressing penetrated my nostrils. To my right, a large purple man in a Ravens shirt warbled, “HE JUST GOT ROCKED” and then proceeded to repeat the shrill phrase eleven times, his face turning as red as the hot sauce smeared over his chicken wings. His voice was swallowed by another, this time a female screaming, “OH YEAH THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN ‘BOUT!” It was a middle-aged woman in a Redskins hat. She held a bright white megaphone in her hand. Perhaps in another venue, her amplifying acoustic horn might have been wildly inappropriate, but not here. Here, it was socially acceptable. Here, it was encouraged.

When it comes to types of sports fans, there is a spectrum. On one end, you have what I like to call, The Fumblers. These are the people who very rarely attempt to watch a game, and when they do, it’s usually only because someone else put it on. I once watched a Superbowl with a group of Fumblers. It was 2015, Seahawks versus Patriots, and I was living in a sorority house. Pro tip: never watch a Superbowl in a sorority house. Sometime during the second quarter, I looked over to see what the group of girls were giggling about. Kim Kardashian’s leaked sex tape was playing on the laptop screen. Another great reflection of quality American entertainment. I rolled my eyes at them, but come to think of it, was their choice of entertainment any more dignifying than mine? There’s something about spectating with which humans are fascinated. In some ways, this is innate. The Coliseum was built in ancient Rome to hold up to 80,000 spectators. It put on both gladiator battles and public spectacles for citizens to gather and watch. We love watching people fight and we love watching people act, and we’ve been doing it for over 2,000 years.

Also, just for kicks, let's just all take a moment to picture Kim Kardashian being thrown into a gladiator pit in ancient Rome. 

On the polar opposite side of the Fumblers, you’ve got The Die-Hards. These are the megaphone-using, voice-losing, money-betting extreme loyalists who are watching every game, every week. During football season, their entire existence is based around the performance of their teams. For some, this is an authentic passion for the sport that stems from loyalty. They love their team; it’s that simple. Others watch for more commercial reasons: to keep up with their fantasy players. Although this behavior perpetuates the ever-expanding gambling culture, their obsession is just as legitimate. The self-esteem of these fans rides on the outcome of the game.

Something physically happens to the brain when watching a football game. The mind turns spectating into actually playing. According to an episode of Nova aired on PBS, there are mirror neurons found in the right side of the brain that cause viewers to subconsciously place themselves in the athlete's shoes. The brain plays what the eyes see. When fans refer to their team as “we”, it’s not because they’re trying to be obnoxious. It’s an actual confusion about what is “me” and what is “the team” in their head. Fans unknowingly mimic actions, feelings and even hormones of the players. This neurological phenomenon elicits physical responses and emotional attachment to the sport. Immersing yourself in the fandom also creates a sense of pride, identity, and belonging. The subconscious self-involvement ultimately transforms the hobby into an act of self-expression that from the naked eye, looks like pretty damn obsessive. Put simply: during the three hours which a game typically lasts, nothing else matters.
 

WATCHING FOOTBALL AT CHAMPPS was very similar to going to a theatre production. There was the set: a sticky bar top decorated with empty beer glasses and populated by bulbous guts and an infinitude of neck rolls. Everyone was in costume and in character, wearing some sort of specific team’s paraphernalia, and wearing it proudly. A profound sense of confidence exuded from every direction. Behind-the-scenes, or in this case, behind-the-bar, you could find the director, or in this case, the bartender. The most impressive part of the whole performance was the choreography. The claps, the forehead-slaps, the table-pounds, and of course, the movements mimicking the referee. There was a lot of parallel arm movement, hand spinning, and finger pointing. The dance was not at all graceful, but yet so many of these fans had memorized this language. A language where physical movement and arbitrary verbal grunts domineered over all sensical communication. Any calories consumed by beer must have been burned by such constant physical activity.

“Can I get you a drink?" The waiter had finally come around to our table.

“I’ll have a Miller.” My friend next to me ordered.  

“Make that two.” The second voice agreed.

“Can I have a root beer please?” Six entertained eyeballs stared back at me as they laughed at my amateur beverage order. In the land of sports, I had broken one of the sacred customs. I had failed to order the holy cup of wine that is sub-premium beer. When it comes to Football Sunday, traditions rule.

There really is something something to be said about the ceremonial aspect of football. The traditions, the rituals, the superstition, the devotion, the Sunday gatherings - it is almost religious in this sense. It has the community aspect of religion too. I walked into that sports bar as an outsider, understanding the basics of football but not understanding the fandom. Yet by the second quarter, I was screaming just as loud as bar dwellers around me. I was submerged in their world and it felt surprisingly good.

I have had the privilege of observing a Die-Hard’s extreme rituals for 18 years. Meet Chuck, or as I like to call him, Dad. Chuck is a fifty-three year old pediatrician living in western Massachusetts. Born and raised in the suburbs of Boston, he lives and breathes for the New England Patriots. Of course, some of this has to do with regional identity. New England takes its sports seriously. In 2004 when the Red Sox won the World Series, my school had an assembly and then called a half day. Anyway, I once woke up on a Sunday morning to an extremely painful, swollen, red throat and ran to my father in a panic. “Not now honey, the game is on.”

I should have known better. This is a man who wears the same outfit for every game: a Tom Brady jersey and Patriot pajama pants. In his hands he always carries the same black football. During commercial breaks, he plays catch with himself. Without fail, every commercial break, he literally throws the ball back and forth across the living room. All glass structures and fragile decorations have since been removed from “The Patriots Room”. Between every play, he takes a ceremonial lap around the couch. Twice if the Pats aren’t doing well. In really bad situations, he secludes himself on the stairs in the back of the room, the farthest away from the television, and watches in between the bars of the bannister. He was once invited to a wedding that took place on the same day as a Patriots game. And so, in lieu of being present, this is what sat on Chuck’s couch on the day of the wedding.

He left himself "in spirit" on the couch watching the game. The smaller Brady jersey was designated for his dog. The television wasn’t allowed to be turned off all day.  

This is a man who scored genius-level on his IQ test, and literally holds an MD. And yet, if you ask him to explain why he performs these rituals without fail for every game, he gives you a simple one word answer: superstition. “It’s sort of like OCD,” he’ll explain. “I know it’s not logical. But I’m not the only one who does it.”

Former New York Giants linebacker Brandon Short claimed that the NFL community are “the most superstitious people in the world.” Short wore the same tee-shirt under his pads throughout his high school career, and halfway through college career at Penn State.  

Irrational is listed as a synonym for superstitious in the Merriam-Webster dictionary. There are no grounds to support these seemingly odd traditions, and yet, they are rampant across the nation. Like Chuck, and like Brandon, many athletes and fans don’t know why they perform these meaningless acts; they just do.

Studies show that superstitions are actually a way to ease a feeling of being out of control. While eating a box of raisins before every game or rolling up pant legs may seem insignificant, these little acts provides a means of feeling in control. It creates an illusion and ultimately provides more meaning. There is release in this way.  

During a game, there is an inherent sense of uncertainty among the competition. Confidence can be damaged as a result of these anxieties. Consequently, people compensate through little acts that subliminally represent self-control. Authority over themselves. Something that they choose to do. In a way, it’s an act of self-preservation.

“IT’S OKAY TOM, you’re still hot!” I shouted at the screen as Tom Brady threw a pass that went out of bounds. While perhaps my football lexicon wasn’t as athletically expressive as a Die-Hard, I was beginning to get the hang of the whole screaming at the screen thing. Baby steps. My friend Nick rolled his eyes at me. “What?” I questioned him as a plop of spinach and artichoke dip dove off of my chip and onto the floor.

“Tom Brady. I hate him.”

“But he’s so good!”

Another eye roll. “That’s why I hate him!”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Athletically yes, he has talent. But he knows he has talent. I mean, c’mon...his ego... look at this game! They’ve literally shown a close-up of his face more times than actual plays.” He paused. “And he wears Uggs.” He smiled at that last comment. My fashionably-challenged father also owns a pair of Uggs; I chose not to disclose to this to Nick. Regardless, the joy while talking about his disdain for the player was evident. He hated him, but he loved hating him. Brady was the perfect villain.

The truth is, some of these players are more celebrity than they are athlete. They become characters both literally, making appearances in commercials and movies, and figuratively, a means to entertaining the average American consumer.

This game is more than just a game. It’s an entertainment outlet, a matter of speculation. It’s an anthropological thrill, an experience that intrinsically resonates with human beings. And it’s even a time to seek catharsis, particularly for men. While expressing emotion is something that is seen as not “masculine” in the eyes of many, somehow sporting events are okay to show attachment. I have a guy friend who literally cried when the Indians cranked a 2-run homer to tie game 7 of the World Series. I had never seen him cry before, and I’ll probably never see him cry again. Sports somehow knock down social barriers like these. It’s okay for my dad to run around the couch like a maniac when the Patriots get a touchdown. It’s okay that former Chicago Bear Brian Urlacher always ate two chocolate chip cookies before every game. It’s okay for my friend to cry when his team wins. Sports makes these things okay, and perhaps that’s why we become so attached.

Perhaps the football fandom has evolved to become less about fun and more about fulfilling human needs: feeling connected to a community, having an outlet of self-expression, providing a sense of control, and accommodating a means to be entertained. Some argue that what was once a playfully competitive sport is evolving into a dangerous industry. With the ever-growing gambling integration and uncontrollable obsessive behavior that ensues as a result of spectating, the threat of being a Die-Hard fan continues to grow. During the three or so hours I spent in Champps, I saw this threat. I went in skeptical, and my suspicion of seemingly outrageous and emotional reaction to the sport was proved right. And yet I was right there with them screaming at the top of my lungs by the end of the game.

Here is where the conflict lies. It’s not black and white. There is a lack of morality when it comes to the NFL industry. The gambling, the commercialism, the treatment of the players, the normalization of their crimes. Yet, the sense of camaraderie in Champps was irrevocable. What I saw in that bar was love, and a lot of it. I went in as an observer, and came out as a participant. It’s hard not to.

This world can so often feel cold and isolated, and yet here is an entire sports bar filled with pure passion. You can see it on the screens, among the players. It is at the tables, friends and families sharing nachos and wings, a three-year-old in an Aaron Rodgers jersey to her ankles plopped on her dad’s shoulders.  It’s the high-five you give a stranger, the freedom to yell whatever, whenever. There’s love among the rival fans, the ones who love to hate each other.

In a world where face-to-face interactions are endangered, here is a setting where you can’t go two feet without engaging with someone. There is an undeniable joy in feeling pride in your community, and fighting for something about which you are passionate. 

Plus, you know, beer. 
 

“HOW LONG WILL these people be here?” I implored as I walked out of Champps with Nick and Patrick. Hours had past, but the sports bar was just as full. The sky had darkened, and the people were drunk on competition and mediocre lagers. A half-eaten nacho crunched under my boot as I exited the vicinity.

“Probably a couple more hours.” Nick replied.

“Damn, that’s dedication.”

“No,” Patrick added. “That’s football.”