Confessions Part 1

I was a spoiled little girl. Not only was I the first child of young and eager parents, I was the first grandchild…on both sides. And all four grandparents lived in middle Tennessee, just like I did. The photo albums of my first three years are practically motion picture flip books, and no holiday was too small for the family to get together and awe over my “accomplishments.” I never tripped without an immediate hand reaching out to help me up, and no request was ever denied me.

Except for seventeen Saturdays of the year. The family would gather together not to watch me perform the latest “Sesame Street” hits on the living room coffee table, but to watch two dozen college boys chase a pigskin on our twelve inch television in the den. Stung at the rejection, I would use all my creative powers to woo back my audience. Promises of a one-toddler rendition of “Annie,” a Barbie vs Skipper Ferrari drag race, even me reading extended passages from the uncondensed version of The Wizard of Oz were all met with, “Not now, honey,” or “Scoot over, sug.” A handful of Lil’ Smokies or some Fritos dipped in Rotel might assuage me momentarily, but I always left the den full of confusion and sadness at this rejection.

It didn’t matter that Sunday after church for the entire rest of the week my family was thrilled to read with me, or play paper dolls, or watch me jump on the trampoline. Nor did it matter that my family wasn’t willfully neglecting me. Many attempts were made to get me interested. I had several cheerleader and pom pom outfit combinations to choose from. I was even given footballs in case I turned out to be a tomboy. As long as I wasn’t trying to be the center of attention, I was held on their laps as they explained to me the game. I was taught cheers and dances and shown when to use them.

All that mattered was for one day a week, something was more interesting than me. Football became my nemesis. The Dr. Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes. Even after my sister was my born, I was more jealous of Football than her.

My personal interests didn’t help the matter. I was a bookworm and theatre geek. This meant as I grew older, all my friends were of the jocks=meatheads mentality. We took a smug superiority in knowing that maybe they were “cooler,” but we were smarter. We were more erudite, cultured, and important. After all, while they were chasing a spherical object not even shaped like a ball, we were thinking about things that mattered. Like existential philosophy.

In the meantime, my family kept trying to share their Football passion with me. Mammy (my mother’s mother) took me to my first college game when I was about nine. For years, she took me down to Tuscaloosa for Homecoming. I watched the parade, enjoyed the floats, and brought a book to the game. Mom convinced me to try out for the school’s cheerleading squad, which I made. My second year, I was crowned the captain. Since I refused to learn even the most rudimentary rules of the game, it was not uncommon for me to start the “Hold that line!” chant while we were on offense. My Dad’s parents continued to have us over for the games; I continued to eat my fill of Rotel and go study French verb conjugations (I wish that were an exaggeration to play up my teenage pretentiousness; sadly, that’s what I actually did).

The breaking point for me came my sophomore year of high school. Our Fairview Yellow Jackets were terrible; by October they still hadn’t won a game. To support the team, the principal announced he would give passes that would excuse tardies to any student who attended that Friday’s game. The academic value of such a proposal can be debated, but what really stuck my craw was the fact that game was at the same time of Opening Night for the fall play. The fall play didn’t rate even a mention on the announcements.

In that moment, my petty jealousy of the sport turned to outright hatred. I was out to destroy football. Which basically amounted to bad-mouthing it at every opportunity (especially playing up the ignorance of those who referred to the sport as “football” without the modifier “American,” since the rest of the world correctly defines “football” as “soccer”) because stopping the sun from shining would be easier than stopping football. But like the vegetarian who believes he can bankrupt the meat industry by not buying bologna, I put an immediate moratorium on any activity that could even be construed as supporting football. I refused to watch even thirty seconds of a game. I stuffed all the UT, Bama, and local team clothing gifted to me in a dark corner of my closet. I even felt a little guilty imbibing in the Rotel.

I saved my largest stand for the future. I had never intended to go to a state school, anyway. I was obviously too intelligent to do that. But I resolved to never attend a university that had a football team at all. Even if it was a bad team no one cared about (thus scratching Vanderbilt off my list of potential colleges). Football might have duped the rest of my family, but it would never dupe me.

Welcome to the Mission

I hated football for seventeen years. And by “hated,” I mean loathed. Despised. Belittled. Cursed its very existence. Refused to consider going to a college that fielded so much as an intramural team.

Merely two weeks into the 2001 season, I was putting the “fan” in “fanatic.” Since then, every Saturday in the fall has been planned out for me. I can watch games for fourteen hours straight and still feel a sadness when the last, West Coast play clock hits goose eggs. I can choose pick ‘ems with the best. I count down the days to big games like others count down the Advent calendar.

I have written a tome arguing winning is the least important component of being a major college football program and exploring the history and traditions of every FBS team. I follow the off field dramas with the avidness of a soap opera fan and have on occasion referred to particularly juicy plotlines as “Dickensian,” or even “Shakesperian.” In fact, when I win the time lottery, I’ll write an adaptation of “Coriolanus” starring the SEC coaching carousel.

There are some who consider people like me a loser. They denounce my passion as pathetic. They sneer I should channel that energy into something important, or at least more high brow. This space is where I present my defense.

The posts here at the Mission will mostly examine the cultural and historical importance of football, particularly in the South, through both personal and global lenses. Many will also focus on the religious overtones that invariably appear. I also take a keen interest in variations of fandom throughout the regions and conferences, which deserves to be explored. I won’t be able to refrain from commenting on the current season, either. And I’ll post any other college football related tidbits or arguments that strike my fancy.

If you love football, you’ll probably see a little bit of yourself reflected. If you love someone who loves football, you just might learn something. If you think football fans are insane freaks….well, you’ll most likely find some support for that theory here, too.