How Bout Them Cowboys??
- Date: 2006-11-27 - Word Count: 1214
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As I sit down for my traditionally untraditional Thanksgiving meal this year, I am faced with a conundrum happened across by many a vagabond sports fan. As is tradition, Thanksgiving is inundated with the sights and sounds of professional football. My dilemma, however, is not what to watch, rather, it is a question of who to be pulling for as mounds of turkey and stuffing are being shoveled into my extremely grateful face. With my traditional, "always leave room for pie" sweatpants on, I am faced with a decision between hometown heroes and childhood chums. Yes, it is the Tampa Bay Buccaneers traveling to Dallas, Texas to take on America's Team, slightly less known by the moniker, the Dallas Cowboys. I grew up with those Cowboys. In fact, as I'm watching the pre-game proceedings, my mother is rustling through a distant closet in an attempt to find my hand-knitted Cowboys helmet I donned as a tot watching countless Cowboy games. It was the kind that came down over the ears, I suppose to keep my bulbous head warm during those severe Texas winters, however, more and more I am starting to believe that it was to serve as a buffer between my infant ears and the array of colorful language being spewed by various members of the family in between involuntary chants now and then of, "How Bout Them Cowboys?; another holiday tradition, yet I digress. On the other side of the field, however, were the Pewter Pirates a.k.a. the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I moved to Tampa straight out of high school to attend college at The University of South Florida. Immediately I adopted the local sports teams, as having lived in Daytona Beach didn't offer me such luxuries, as there were no teams to be found. I was always taught, and believe to this day, that rooting for the hometown team is a good thing for so many reasons.
I moved around a bit as a child, from my hometown of Amarillo, Texas to the mean streets of Minneapolis/St. Paul to the suburbs of Chicago, all along the way, adopting the time honored traditions of each community and its teams. Rooting for the home team offers a few modest conveniences that make life so much more enjoyable. The first, and foremost, is that you aren't "that guy" (ladies, I apologize because I know you're sports fans too, but you'll understand better once the title is explained). "That guy" is the one who just won't let go. He comes to the sports bar wearing his commemorative, 1983 Philadelphia Phillies hat that looks like it had gone on an epic journey, the likes of which Odysseus couldn't imagine. "That guy" trots proudly into the stadium donning a Flyers jersey to watch the Tampa Bay Lightning take on the Washington Capitols, all the while going on about his glory days back in "tha delphia" when he sat in the same restaurant booth that Phil Esposito sat in two weeks earlier, or making sure you know that his brother's girlfriend's uncle once knew a guy who has an actual loch of Mitch Williams' mullet. You know the guy. He has season tickets to every team in the area, but refuses to admit he is a fan. He doesn't hesitate, however, to load up his 1988 Oldsmobile as he heads to an autograph session with a duffel bag full of Wal-Mart sporting goods and a kid in tow that is being trained in the intricate ways of being the absolute most obnoxious human being on the planet, but he is certainly not a fan. You know "that guy".
Being a supporter of the hometown team lets you enjoy Sunday afternoon tailgates at the stadium, allows you to read more than a one paragraph blurb in the sports pages, and makes you feel accepted as you drive to work Monday morning in the same good mood as everyone else on the roads because, "a W is a W no matter how ugly that 12-9 win was."
Then, there is tradition and dedication. Tradition like singing, "Bear Down, Chicago Bears" or watching "The Super Bowl Shuffle" every summer to remind you that hope is only 17 weeks away. Dedication, like wearing cheese on your head all day long, strapping on battery powered, heated socks to a playoff game in the snow, or cooking bratwurst in a hail storm because pork and mustard can cure any ill. Things like that make you remember, they bring families together across generations. Dedication like that gives fathers and sons who can barely be civil at the dinner table something to talk about, if only for a couple hours once or twice a year. Tradition and dedication like that strike deep in the soul. I've seen these things, first hand, and know how powerful they are.
So where does that leave me? Sitting here Thanksgiving, only my mother and I. The third Thursday of November, and I am a man torn. The Bucs are "my team". As a college kid looking for any excuse to over-do it, I tailgated the Super Bowl at Ray-Jay , just to say I was there, regardless of if it was the Ravens against the Giants. A year later I was knee deep in the pandemonium that swept the bay area after Chucky led us to the promise land. I mean, these were the guys I listened to every week on their radio shows. But what about tradition? How 'Bout Them Cowboys?
Perched in front of the television with a mound of food waiting to be devoured, I had to make a decision. As a self respecting sports fan, I had to pick a side, and ride that pony hell or high water. I wasn't going to be "that other guy" who is happy either way. That's not what sports are about. You are either elated and obnoxious, pointing out your weekly dominance to anyone in earshot, or you are devastated and obnoxious, spouting obscenities to anyone in earshot (including the dog who has learned the bathtub is probably the safest place on football Sundays). That's what sports is all about. So, what's a guy to do? The gravy is getting cold, and my mom has since given up on finding my crocheted helmet. It was decision time. So, with a conflicted heart, I turned to my mom and said, "You know, I've rooted for those Cowboys every Thanksgiving of my life. Helmet made of yarn or not, I'm going to root for those Cowboys with you in the name of tradition, and with Texan pride on the line." I made that decision with a heavy heart, for it wasn't easy to root against those Pewter Pirates. But, tradition prevailed this time, along with Dallas, and I dozed off on the sofa with stars (and those famous cheerleaders) dancing in my mind. Next week, I'll still read about the Bucs, and will root them onto the close of what is already a disastrous season. But, for today at least, tradition gives me a bond with my mother, a nostalgic feeling in the only corner of my stomach not occupied by pie, and a reason to feel proud of where I came from. So, How Bout them Cowboys? How Bout them Cowboys, indeed
I moved around a bit as a child, from my hometown of Amarillo, Texas to the mean streets of Minneapolis/St. Paul to the suburbs of Chicago, all along the way, adopting the time honored traditions of each community and its teams. Rooting for the home team offers a few modest conveniences that make life so much more enjoyable. The first, and foremost, is that you aren't "that guy" (ladies, I apologize because I know you're sports fans too, but you'll understand better once the title is explained). "That guy" is the one who just won't let go. He comes to the sports bar wearing his commemorative, 1983 Philadelphia Phillies hat that looks like it had gone on an epic journey, the likes of which Odysseus couldn't imagine. "That guy" trots proudly into the stadium donning a Flyers jersey to watch the Tampa Bay Lightning take on the Washington Capitols, all the while going on about his glory days back in "tha delphia" when he sat in the same restaurant booth that Phil Esposito sat in two weeks earlier, or making sure you know that his brother's girlfriend's uncle once knew a guy who has an actual loch of Mitch Williams' mullet. You know the guy. He has season tickets to every team in the area, but refuses to admit he is a fan. He doesn't hesitate, however, to load up his 1988 Oldsmobile as he heads to an autograph session with a duffel bag full of Wal-Mart sporting goods and a kid in tow that is being trained in the intricate ways of being the absolute most obnoxious human being on the planet, but he is certainly not a fan. You know "that guy".
Being a supporter of the hometown team lets you enjoy Sunday afternoon tailgates at the stadium, allows you to read more than a one paragraph blurb in the sports pages, and makes you feel accepted as you drive to work Monday morning in the same good mood as everyone else on the roads because, "a W is a W no matter how ugly that 12-9 win was."
Then, there is tradition and dedication. Tradition like singing, "Bear Down, Chicago Bears" or watching "The Super Bowl Shuffle" every summer to remind you that hope is only 17 weeks away. Dedication, like wearing cheese on your head all day long, strapping on battery powered, heated socks to a playoff game in the snow, or cooking bratwurst in a hail storm because pork and mustard can cure any ill. Things like that make you remember, they bring families together across generations. Dedication like that gives fathers and sons who can barely be civil at the dinner table something to talk about, if only for a couple hours once or twice a year. Tradition and dedication like that strike deep in the soul. I've seen these things, first hand, and know how powerful they are.
So where does that leave me? Sitting here Thanksgiving, only my mother and I. The third Thursday of November, and I am a man torn. The Bucs are "my team". As a college kid looking for any excuse to over-do it, I tailgated the Super Bowl at Ray-Jay , just to say I was there, regardless of if it was the Ravens against the Giants. A year later I was knee deep in the pandemonium that swept the bay area after Chucky led us to the promise land. I mean, these were the guys I listened to every week on their radio shows. But what about tradition? How 'Bout Them Cowboys?
Perched in front of the television with a mound of food waiting to be devoured, I had to make a decision. As a self respecting sports fan, I had to pick a side, and ride that pony hell or high water. I wasn't going to be "that other guy" who is happy either way. That's not what sports are about. You are either elated and obnoxious, pointing out your weekly dominance to anyone in earshot, or you are devastated and obnoxious, spouting obscenities to anyone in earshot (including the dog who has learned the bathtub is probably the safest place on football Sundays). That's what sports is all about. So, what's a guy to do? The gravy is getting cold, and my mom has since given up on finding my crocheted helmet. It was decision time. So, with a conflicted heart, I turned to my mom and said, "You know, I've rooted for those Cowboys every Thanksgiving of my life. Helmet made of yarn or not, I'm going to root for those Cowboys with you in the name of tradition, and with Texan pride on the line." I made that decision with a heavy heart, for it wasn't easy to root against those Pewter Pirates. But, tradition prevailed this time, along with Dallas, and I dozed off on the sofa with stars (and those famous cheerleaders) dancing in my mind. Next week, I'll still read about the Bucs, and will root them onto the close of what is already a disastrous season. But, for today at least, tradition gives me a bond with my mother, a nostalgic feeling in the only corner of my stomach not occupied by pie, and a reason to feel proud of where I came from. So, How Bout them Cowboys? How Bout them Cowboys, indeed
Related Tags: football, dallas cowboys, thanksgiving, fans
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