Right around June-time, I can be seen kicked back in my leather recliner, barking at the television like a nutter. It’s America’s so-called national pastime on the television — baseball — and it is so slow and tedious I can hardly stand myself. “Just no, no and no,” I say to no one in particular. “This needs to be over. You’ve had your time! It’s time for football, the real football!”
Much as I admit to having enjoyed some of the “soccer” matches of recent days (i.e. the World Cup Football), nothing compares to the run up to “my season” … the trading, the rumors, the contracts, the coaches, the injuries … it’s all part of the huge build-up to five months of bliss, when my tele is constantly set to record for the next big game and when an invite out on game day must be swiftly declined.
My first football game was Oct. 14, 2012, against the NY Giants at Candlestick Park. I still have the ticket stub. I haven’t looked back since. I am a self-professed, die-hard San Francisco 49ers fan. I’m always on the lookout for new gear, sporting my latest fave player, though tight-end George Kittle has been my honey now for several seasons. I don’t mind wearing the shirts of players long gone either, as long as they are still ethically aligned to where I’m currently at or didn’t move to play for the — ahem — competition.
It’s a complicated business, football. It will be a tough day — likely on the near horizon — when I am forced to relinquish my considerable collection of football jerseys (maybe to my son, also a huge fan) and just take along my very favorites, when we move, and closet space is not as opulent as the present day.
About two days prior to the next game, I can be seen out and about in my white truck (with 49ers number plate holder and emblems) boasting a team shirt — the red and gold never falters, though sometimes white is nice too. You immediately find your people in the grocery store or gas station. “NINERS!” you hear loud and proud down the bread aisle or across the forecourt.
“Oh, I know!” This is an easy conversation with a perfect stranger. “How do we look? Do you think Bosa will play? Can you believe the injuries already?” You can enjoy some very easy banter with another super-fan as you go about your day oblivious to the real world outside. Die-hard fans, we talk to each other, whether in the stadium or outside. Regardless of sex, culture, race, religion or otherwise (well, football IS our religion), we are a bonded group. We will high-five and hug, yell, scream, jump up and down — we are The Fan Club and we love each other.
“What’s going to happen when you move?” that question has been asked. “No change,” I reply. I’ll still be a Super Fan, and I will likely just take the plane to games instead of the train or car. That was easy.
I was so excited when I heard that the 49ers were going to be playing in London, England. “This is what I’m talking about!” I say to my people over there. “It’s about time you lot got some real football in your lives!” (They just smile mildly at me — they know I’m obsessed.) I’m honestly not sure how I feel about my team playing in Australia — that seems to be something that should be tested in the offseason as an exhibition game, not a real game that counts for something. The fatigue and jet lag for the players does not seem fair, but who am I? No, I shall not be attending. The $8,000-plus was just not in the budget, but I shall enjoy it from my recliner that will likely be getting quite the workout this season. Have I booked to go to any live games at home so far? Yes, another friend is taking me to see the Cardinals for my birthday, so there’s that exciting adventure on the horizon.
I took my sister to a game once, hoping that she would feel the vibes, enjoy the atmosphere, get a grip of the rules, but I think it was a bit too loud and “American” for her, so I doubt she’d grab a hold of another one if I offered it. My friend Dana and I will go to unbelievable lengths to attend a game. At the end of last season, I had just had a knee replacement and was mostly lying flat with a raised knee and ice packs on the knee. I managed to secure some tickets from another friend for the game, and I just couldn’t stand to be home anymore. I had been on lockdown for too long! Sensible friends of mine challenged how this could work, how I was going to attend a football game when my leg needed to be elevated. “Oh, we’ll figure it out,” I said blithely. As my husband duly noted, “It’s pointless trying to tell you anything, because you are going to do exactly whatever it is you want,” and I thanked him for that candid observation. All true.
My friend arrives in her sports car to escort me to the game. That was challenge No. 1, since there was not a whole lot of room for leg elevation in this babe-mobile. (Did I sit in the back with my leg resting on her head? The memory blurs.)
I do know that I had an ice box full of ice wraps and what have you to keep the knee iced up. We had, sensibly, stayed the night at the stadium the night before, so that I could get maximum rest and icing before the actual game itself and suffer only a small walk — or, in my case, stagger — to actually get over to the stadium itself.
We get to our seats, and my friend runs off to get renewed ice packs for me. I could later be seen with my leg up over hers and ice packs on top — quite the scene that, sadly, no one photographed. But that’s the sort of super fan I am and we are. I’ll slow my physical recovery just to feel the buzz and whirr and thrill of a live game with the boys of my team playing right in front of me. Quite often I will later, or the following day, watch the game again from the comfort of my own living room. Yes, I know, borderline obsessive!
My oldest son married a LA Rams fan — a bit worrying, I know, but it makes for some quite fun banter when we all manage to go to a game together with our two teams playing. Now my 49ers friend Dana is moving down to LA, there may be the possibility of meeting her down south for a different experience, though I prefer our home stadium with all the madness of the red and gold for all to see and hear. Would I turn down the opportunity? No, I would not.
If, like us, you have super-passions like football that fill your heart with joy, go for it. Life is tough enough. Grab your happy times by the throat and squeeze really hard, savor the moments, scream like a banshee, go wild at the touchdowns. My season has arrived. If you hear a hollering coming from a little house on the hill above Soledad, yes, that’s me.
Columnist Lucy Jensen may be reached at lu*************@***il.com.
