Why Football Matters: Connecting with the Past

If you asked me for my first football memory, I would lie. I would not mention my first vague, toddler impressions of the adults gathered around small-by-today’s-standards televisions, or sitting next to my uncle at Bryant-Denny waiting for kick-off against Louisiana Tech while a Smashing Pumpkins tune blared a few years later. I would skip these in favor of January 2, 1998.

The family had gathered at Mammy’s to scream their heads off about a stupid ball game. I chose to read in the spare bedroom, though the cheers could be heard throughout the house. When I snucks into the living room for some Rotel and Pigs in a Blanket, I almost getting whacked in the head by my mother.

You see, Momma was a nervous fan; she channeled her hopeful energy into pacing, jumping, and touchdown dancing. To her, all the players were buddy. “C’mon buddy,” she would plead in her resplendent Southern drawl, willing players across the first down marker. If her request was successful, you could count on hopping and flailing of arms.

For some reason, this game was more intense than most. The family was even less responsive to my presence than usual, and Momma’s movements made me fear for my safety. I fled back to my sanctuary.

Afterwards, I recall everyone’s dejected mood and some chatter about “Peyton Manning.”

Now I know that was the Orange Bowl, and Tennessee had a chance at being national champions that year. Instead, they were slaughtered 41-17 in the famous quarterback’s last college game and ended an otherwise stellar season on a sour note.

It was also the last game Momma ever saw. She suffered fatal injuries in a car accident twenty-three days later.

Three years later, upon my growing interest in football, I noticed something. I paced during games. I jumped, hopped, and danced. I urged the players on with “C’mon honeybun,” or even “C’mon buddy.” I had turned into my mother.

It took some time for me to stop feeling self-conscious about my behavior. Was it some sort of psychological complex? Would this devolve into some creepy Norman Bates scenario? Was this learned or genetic or coincidental or all of the above? The world may never know.

These days when I catch myself acting like Momma, I take some comfort in it. Even though she never knew me as a football fan, it’s as if we’re able to connect in those moments. Those games are the closest substitute to watching a full game with her I’ll ever have. No other activity has been able to channel those feelings of grief into something so positive.

All sports at some level encourage general and personal connections to the past. Fans become enveloped in the collective traditions and legacies of their teams-- teams which inevitably leave political and cultural marks in their cities and states. Most have fond recollections of special times with a special adult in the ballpark or at the stadium.

College football lends itself particularly well to the collective history. College ball predates every modern American sport, except baseball. For 140 years, fans have been perfecting their traditions and providing a common experience for its base. Though baseball may be twenty years older, it cannot touch the all day festivities of college football: the pageantry of the bands, pep rallies, and all weekend tail gating.

Obviously, I cannot speak for the personal connections people have made with their favorite sports. But football has played a significant role in my own healing process. Though I will be presenting many more defenses of football and its fans, for that reason alone football will never be “meaningless” or “stupid” to me.