Oct. 4, 2010
|
How I helped Auburn win the Clemson game
The Family Guy Let's talk about football. I am an Auburn fan, which means about half of you just stopped reading this, deciding instead to dump hot coffee all over my grinning mug shot before tossing this silly column in the trash. But I'm not trying to get into a tastes great vs. less filling argument with Alabama fans. You guys got your national championship, and I've made my peace with that disturbing fact by burning an elephant in effigy and getting protests from PETA in the process, despite the fact that the thing was stuffed, came from Goodwill and smelled vaguely of cat urine. Rather, I'd like to whine a while about the stress of being a fan. We are the unsung heroes. We are the ones who paint our chests in team colors, buy the overpriced jerseys, eat too many hot wings, raise those foam fingers, call in to the Paul Finebaum show to make fools of ourselves and scream obscenities at the TV until the rest of the family runs from the living room in fear. My Lovely Wife “likes” football. She “enjoys” seeing Auburn win. She's also been known to fall asleep in the middle of a knuckle-biter only to wake up moments after a game-winning field goal and bask in the joy of victory … just before going back to sleep. She's not really a fan. She's an acquaintance, a friend of football who doesn't know the pain and misery that comes with every snap. She doesn't know what it means to feel physically sick for days after a loss or personally responsible for a win. She thinks “lucky” shirts are silly. She doesn't know how it feels to actually hate a stranger because they're wearing the wrong colors or to secretly pray for an injury that'll knock a talented running back out of the game. She doesn't understand exactly why “fan” is short for “fanatic.” And for that, I'm so jealous. Take the Auburn-Clemson game. I sat in an emotional knot for the first half watching as my beloved Auburn Tigers got shellacked on both sides of the ball. I got so angry a few times that I blurted out words that will soon get Jellybean in trouble at day care (I'll blame her sister if she let's one slip across the dinner table). It was the kind of game that taught me to never hold a remote control because that's the first thing that gets thrown after a failed third-and-long, and nothing ruins a game like shattering the flat-screen TV. Things got so bad that I got desperate — I changed my frothy adult beverage of choice right after Clemson's second touchdown. My Lovely Wife merely rolled her eyes and went to bed without a worry in the world. But the beer knew better, and my brand reversal was directly responsible for Auburn tearing off 24 unanswered points and ultimately pulling an overtime victory from the jaws of defeat. I haven't worn shoulder pads since sixth grade but after that game I was achy and exhausted, so I woke up my sleeping wife to tell her of my heroics. “Good job, honey,” she said sarcastically, kissing me on the forehead like a baby who'd had a bad dream. “I'm so proud of you.” Being a fan may mean I'm crazy, but I'll take a kiss from a pretty lady any time I can get it. Brett Buckner is an award-winning former columnist for the Anniston Star. He lives in Columbus, Ga. with his wife, daughter and stepdaughter. His humor column appears regularly in The Post. Contract Brett at brett.buckner@yahoo.com. |