I am not a sports fan. There are certain sports that I enjoy occasionally, but when it comes right down to it, I couldn’t care less. That doesn’t mean I can’t muster a strong opinion on particular games or teams. Those opinions are usually manifested in dislike for teams who play the games about which I couldn’t care less. No, it isn’t actually the teams I dislike; it’s the cities, states, or other entities they represent, and what they represent, that I dislike. In short, it’s usually something political.
For example, I could never be a Redskins fan, even though the political incorrectness of their name is attractive. What the Washington machine has been doing to my beloved Constitution since long before Il Duce took power requires me to oppose all things DC. I can’t tell you why I oppose the 49ers; this is a family blog, and besides, I might get being charged with a hate crime. Closer to home, the Vikings have my indirect disdain. Al Franken is why. Well, not Al Franken per se, but the road they have long been traveling that has led to Al Franken.
Being married to a native cheesehead, Minnesota-hate has been quite convenient — until Brett Favre went to the Vikings, that is. My wife has been in quite a dither over the whole situation. Favre was the hero of Green Bay for so long that it has been difficult to separate Packer-fanhood from Favre-fanhood. She has even been heard to suggest, with the agony of a woman in labor, that she might have to root for the Vikings if they make the Superbowl. I, supportive husband that I am, have suggested what a beautiful irony it would be if the Viking’s first Superbowl win was led by Favre, in his first year as a Viking, after defeating Green Bay in the playoffs.
Not everyone, it might interest you to know, appreciates irony.
So there we were, yesterday afternoon, in front of the tube waiting for the Packer-Viking tip-off, or first pitch, or whatever it is they do on a football court. Well, one of us was waiting. I was daydreaming about something profound (I’m sure, though I don’t remember) when I was rudely yanked from my reverie by a sound reminiscent of my only professional hockey match (at the beginning of the first inning, the North Stars fan behind me was instructing his young son in court-side etiquette as the Detroit Redwings took the field). The Packer fans were booing Brett Favre! Now some of this post might be taken frivolously, but please take me very seriously when I say I was disgusted. Such shameful behavior! Disgraceful!
Anyway, there was only one thing I could do: I launched into a rant against unsportsmanlike behavior, in which I repeated the adjectives above repeatedly (incessantly, some might say, but she’s exaggerating) and decreed that the support of the entire household was to be thrown solidly behind Favre and the Vikings. Shocking, I know, but such was the heat of my fury. So there I was, all afternoon, cheering loudly for a bunch of guys in purple from the Al Franken state performing some of the most meaningless (or is that least meaningful?) antics imaginable. Alas, how low I had descended!
Not really. I went back to my profound ponderings without another thought. I needed a nap.
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