“Football fans share a universal language that cuts across many cultures and many personality types. A serious football fan is never alone. We are legion, and football is often the only thing we have in common.” - Hunter S. Thompson
I was lucky enough to be born into the greatest sports city in America, a city so steeped in the culture of football that visitors to the airport are greeted by statues of two of the most iconic people in American history: George Washington and Hall of Fame running back Franco Harris. Before my cries could bounce off the walls of the Children’s Hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, I was destined for a lifetime of joy and sadness brought on by the black and gold in my DNA. It wasn’t long before my conscious mind let me into the greatest joy a human can feel: winning a Super Bowl (can I write this? Legally?). Not personally, of course; I’m 5’6”. But through the lens of kinship to a team that is as strong as my own family. In my youth, my brothers and I begged our parents to let us stay up to watch a whole Super Bowl, are bedtimes preventing us from catching the halftime show (luckily missing Justin Timberlake assaulting Janet Jackson), but still catching the Go Daddy commercial in the first quarter that promised more by visiting the website just for my elementary friends to google it and find out they were selling website domains. Our mom countered that if the Steelers made the Superbowl, then we could stay up. Bless Bill Cowher, because it was only 2006 that we got to stay up until 10 PM, witnessing the Steelers win Ring number five, a heroic performance from Hines Ward, Willie Parker, Anton Randel El, Troy Polamalu, and co. My joy would not be quelled. Nor would it for the whole community. Steelers fight songs played at every lunch in Elementary School during our playoff run. Black and gold spirit competitions. Themed snacks decorating the entirety of Giant Eagle. Football runs deep in Western Pennsylvania as it does throughout the country. A super Bowl run just brings it to the forefront. Only three years later and we got one for the other thumb, the first franchise to ever win 6 Super Bowls. The 27–23 win over the Cardinals was easily one of the best Super Bowls in the modern era. By then, we didn’t have to haggle with our mom for a delayed bedtime. My brotehrs and I were fully committed to the team. Within 3 years, we were gifted with two Super Bowls and we could not feel more on top of the world. Then, two years later we were in Super Bowl XLV against the Packers. It felt like heritage, that I would be destined for a lifetime of Steelers Super Bowl wins and the absence of sadness in my life. When his dad and brother got to go to Texas for the game, my friend, Jake, held a super bowl party for all of our 9th grade friends to watch ring number seven come home to Pittsburgh. Adorned in jerseys and eye paint, huddled up on one L-framed couch surrounded by Sprite and chips, football fans and teenagers who had no idea what was happening alike came to watch us win. Nothing could stop the joy of watching the biggest game of the year with friends. Nothing except a 6-point loss to Aaron Rodgers and the Packers. When the final whistle blew and yellow and green confetti rained down on the turf, the room was sucked of all life. We didn’t shed tears, but we hung our heads in uninterrupted sadness. My friend Stephen wrapped a comforting arm around me as I drooped over Jake’s couch. We dispersed away, only to see each other the next day at school, the flag at half mast, gold taken away to a funeral procession black dress code. As a privileged youth who hadn’t lost anyone close to me, I thought that was the lowest it could get. Eleven years later and I am still chasing that right to be sad. In my first year at college, my friends and I watched the Patriots and the Seahawks put on a special game as we watched the snow fall outside our 10th story dorm window. We all got the text from our school halfway through the game that we’d have a two-hour delay (we were a big commuter school). When Malcolm Butler picked off Russell Wilson and gave the Patriots their 4th stupid Super Bowl victory, our anger at the Patriots yet again winning was overshadowed by the first big snowfall of 2015. We strapped on our boots and took to the streets of campus, claiming a mound of plowed snow as our fort to huck snowballs at other students across the street whom none of us knew but declared battle on us from their fort. Anger at New England is temporary. The desire for snow-bound warfare is forever. Since then, we’ve dropped the X from the L and passed a half century of Super Bowls. It remains the greatest holiday in America, uniting friends in such a special occasion. While the food, commercials, and halftime show bring in millions of viewers, real fandom has a huge impact on viewers. In fact, an average increase of 3.3 million fans join the winning Super Bowl team. Some may call this bandwagon. I would call this a glimpse into your future. For new NFL viewers, young and old, tasting that victory fills them with joy, pride, and bliss. “When you win, nothing hurts.” – Joe Namath Entering fandom on the highest of highs really undercuts the journey that is ahead of them. But I still envy the new fans who will come to the Super Bowl, prepared to watch Sir Patrick Stewart chuck Arnold from Hey Arnold into a cliffside broken up with 60 minutes of some random game to then find their heart attached to a decades-old franchise that will cause them pain, suffering, and a few glimpses of happiness for the rest of their life. Their journey starts here. I’m lucky to have witnessed two of those great moments of joy in my life. Others have been more fortunate to have witnessed six in their lives. Yet, we can’t always experience true joy or else it would diminish all great joy. Complacency is the kryptonite to a truly lived life. I am waiting patiently for the day I can be sad, truly sad, following a Super Bowl. My biggest accomplishment as a Steelers fan since Super Bowl XLV is drinking more Blue Moons than the Rams scored points in Super Bowl LIII. I want to feel. I am never more reminded of my humanity than when I was surrounded by a dozen of my closest 9th grade friends mourning the win that would not be. To be so close to glory again, to be within reach of a number seven, is to remember that there is never an end. The Steelers will go again. And so will I.
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Rob EnglishJust a kid from Pittsburgh trying to figure out my place in the world and write some things along the way. Archives
February 2024
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