There’s something about being a sports nut in your hometown. I used to dig being “the other guy.” I enjoyed sitting outside of other New England teams’ hockey arenas, clad in red face paint and a BU jersey, tailgating among rival fans. I had fun sitting nosebleed in the FleetCenter in December donning an away Pens jersey as they handed it to the B’s. But now I know what it’s like to truly miss the camaraderie of your hometown fans.
For 16 weeks of the year, I have a Pittsburgh family of about 100 people. Members of the “Black and Gold Brigade” occupy a room at Sports Depot during every Steelers game of the season. I thought I enjoyed us drowning out all the Patriots fans every week with our cheers because it’s fun to be the other guy. But I was wrong. Last Sunday made me realize that the reason it was so much fun to go to the bar, hear the “Pennsylvania Polka” boom from a mini-van’s trunk in the parking lot and the “Picksburgh” accents scream at the screen, was because it made me feel like I was at home.
Boy, was I excited for the AFC Championship. My friends’ “but the Pats are a team of destiny” banter meant nothing to me, for I was the uber-confident other guy. Every night last week, I dreamed we were going to the Super Bowl, only to wake-up and realize the game hadn’t yet been played. Finally, I woke up wide-eyed on game day and dressed myself up with more Steeler ornamentation than there is on the Rockefeller Christmas tree. I made my way to the bar and was there by 10 a.m.
We already had an enormous contingent. Some guy had booked our room for the Super Bowl before the NFL schedule change pushed the big game back a week. He sat alone in our room sporting a “Steelers Suck” T-shirt while we moved our entire party to the middle of the restaurant. We called Pittsburgh radio stations to cheer over the airwaves. We waved our Terrible Towels to a CD mix of Steelers tunes. It seemed just like home.
Down 21-3 going into the half, our family of fans began to look low. Tears. Silence. Motionless Terrible Towels. After an excellent third quarter, though, it looked like we had a chance to be able to walk home with our Steel-hat adorned heads held high, not cautious of how much Steeler paraphernalia poked out of our coats. Then came the fourth quarter. You all know what happened. When Kordell threw that interception to Lawyer Milloy on our last chance to force overtime, tears swelled up again. I kept looking back at all the Pats fans that lined our section. Hugs. Toasts. Cheers. They were the real family. Happy for their team that’s made them proud. Hometown fans.
Being the other guy isn’t all that fun. If the Steelers had won, I’d be away from Pittsburgh’s black and gold bagels, Steelers songs on the radio and the redundant Super Bowl plans stories that grace every newscast. I’d be able to nod my head in approval to the handful of Steelers fans I passed walking to class, but it’d be nothing like celebrating with a whole city — a whole culture — of people just as excited as me. I’m jealous of the Patriots’ victory, but equally jealous of the joy Pats fans can share with their fellow New Englanders. There’s something to be said for the bond of being able to celebrate something as an entire town.
It’s even harder to deal with being the other guy when you have to experience such a tragic season-ending loss. The few people that share your pain all scatter back home to wake-up the next morning and go through the motions of working or studying in New England. You have to plunge yourself back into Patriots’ country — listen to excited kids sit next to you in class and talk about New England’s chances in New Orleans; watch the 11 p.m. news with colorful chyrons of Pats vs. Rams helmets and discussion of who ought to be the starting quarterback in the big game; listen to Dennis and Callahan rant about the Pats chances against the league’s No. 1 offense — pick up the newspaper and read Dan Shaughnessy’s account of what it’s like to be a Pats fan in the Big Easy. It’s like trying to recover from the heartbreak of an abrupt end to a long-term relationship destined for marriage and being incessantly exposed to Luther Vandross love songs and Meg Ryan romantic flicks.
It was really difficult to walk out of that bar. I wasn’t prepared to have to hold back my tears — at home, everyone understands that you’re sad. At home, you don’t have to deal with the honking cars parading the streets with drivers nodding at you in your team colors. You don’t have to respond to even the polite fans who utter your way, “Tough day, huh?”
But the reason it hurts so much to not have the camaraderie you Pats fans have is because I know what it’s like to be in your situation. Enjoy it. Hug the dude next to you in the AFC Championship cap riding the T. Toast with the chick in the Bledsoe jersey occupying the stool next to you at T’s Pub.
I hope you can all celebrate with the rest of your hometown come Super Sunday, but if the Rams keep you from rejoicing with one another, you’ll be glad you don’t have to be sad alone. Just some thoughts from this veteran other guy.
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