I messed up.
The Buffalo Bills vs. the Jacksonville Jaguars? How could I have done this to us.
In short, piss poor planning.
I picked eight teams to cover over the course of the season: Bills, Ravens, Steelers, Patriots, Jets, Eagles, Giants and of course the Redskins.
I watched the Redskins play the Cowboys in Week One, the Ravens against the Bengals in Week Two, took a personal bye in Week Three and saw the Eagles and the 'Skins again in week four -- which, while not a bad slate of games, was the scheduling equivalent of eating the broccoli and potatoes first to build anticipation for the steak: namely the Pats, Steelers and Jets.
HOWEVER... both the Steelers and Patriots had bye's in week 5. Now I'm left with a choice between catching the Jets vs. the Vikings, or the Bills vs. the Jaguars, two games on different planets in terms of potential for excitement. Problem is, the Jets game is on Monday night, and I don't do Monday night games. They're too much -- the racing home from work, walking the dog, feeding it, feeding me, fighting traffic to the bar, fighting for a seat, getting home at midnight with work the next morning. To quote Danny Glover in all three Lethal Weapons, I’m too old for this shit.
All of which is to say, I chose to watch the 0-4 Bills host to the 2-2 Jaguars, two teams no one, and I mean no one, cares about. And worse than that, you now have to read about it.
Through internet research, I find a spot called Grevey's in Falls Church right on Highway 50. It's said to be the Bills bar in Northern Virginia and so popular that parking can be an issue. I already resent the inconvenience. It's the Bills. Of all the ways being a fan of that team is problematic, it doesn't seem fair that parking is one of them.
 |
| The Bills room |
But Grevey's is a nice place. It's got one of those we’re-the-official-headquarters-of-five-different-NFL-teams things going on, but the Buffalo fans have a large room in the back all to themselves. And despite the 0-4 start, the room nearly full, and I grab one of the empty stools at the bar.
I don't realize right away that the throwback White Sox shirt I'm wearing has the same shades of blue, red and white as the Bills uniform, so when the guy sitting to my left asks if I'm a Buffalo fan, I give him a HELL no look and immediately feel the same kind of awful as when someone asks if you're dating someone you're not attracted to, and you're all HELL no before you realize a) the person in question is perfectly nice and undeserving of that reaction, and b) who the hell are you to be giving hell no looks.
 | |
| Jamal and his dad. |
Jamal (that's his name) doesn't hold it against me. A soft-spoken guy, he briefly walks me through the roster . It’s unobtrusive commentary on a game we're both half-watching. Jamal's father is sitting to his left. They get together for the game every Sunday, usually with other New York transplants here at Grevey's, and, looking around, I can see why they come back. It's comfortable here. It’s almost serene. The patrons, many of whom, Jamal says, are the same faces that have been showing up for years, sit with their spouses and children at round-tables in the center of a room kept just bright enough by the afternoon’s natural light.
I realize all of my previous bar visits had been so...intense...in comparison. So much yelling, so many twenty-somethings, and no families. Why do they all packed into a standing-room-only space when they could watch the game at home, or at a quieter bar, and have actual conversations....with their dads. Where is my dad? Still in China on business, I think. Why don’t I know for sure? Because, unlike Jamal, I’m a lousy son. I order coffee and bread pudding – it’s good here, I’d heard - and dwell on this and other bad thoughts, before realizing I’m just tired. I am really, really tired, y’all. *Cue violin* I work a 60-hour work week, go to school and keep up with chores at the apartment (sorta), and now I’ve committed three hours of my Sunday to watching football a different bar every week (four when you add in the round-trip commute), which doesn’t sound bad until you consider that I go alone, don’t drink for a lack of a DD, and usually can’t manage to get to the bars early enough to grab a good seat, which means I end up wedged into a corner, craning to see the TV . Watching football should be a respite. It should be Grevey’s. I wonder, finally, if it matters how good or bad the team you follow is. If what matters is having a space and familiar people to fill it, week in, week out, over a span of years. And if my messy scheduling was serendipity delivering me to where I belong.
I realize all of my previous bar visits had been so...intense...in comparison. So much yelling, so many twenty-somethings, and no families. Why do they all packed into a standing-room-only space when they could watch the game at home, or at a quieter bar, and have actual conversations....with their dads. Where is my dad? Still in China on business, I think. Why don’t I know for sure? Because, unlike Jamal, I’m a lousy son. I order coffee and bread pudding – it’s good here, I’d heard - and dwell on this and other bad thoughts, before realizing I’m just tired. I am really, really tired, y’all. *Cue violin* I work a 60-hour work week, go to school and keep up with chores at the apartment (sorta), and now I’ve committed three hours of my Sunday to watching football a different bar every week (four when you add in the round-trip commute), which doesn’t sound bad until you consider that I go alone, don’t drink for a lack of a DD, and usually can’t manage to get to the bars early enough to grab a good seat, which means I end up wedged into a corner, craning to see the TV . Watching football should be a respite. It should be Grevey’s. I wonder, finally, if it matters how good or bad the team you follow is. If what matters is having a space and familiar people to fill it, week in, week out, over a span of years. And if my messy scheduling was serendipity delivering me to where I belong.
 |
| SPOILER: He breaks this and every other Bills tackle like a Kit Ka |
And then, I start watching the game, and realize how bad the Bills are. What on earth…They’re awful. The 0-5 record doesn’t do their kind of bad justice. Missed tackle. Missed field goal. Incomplete pass that you could tell wanted to be an interception when it grew up, and nearly became one. What makes it worse is that the Bills aren’t rolling over – they’re playing really, really hard and are just horribly over-matched. After Maurice Jones-Drew rattles off a 25 yard run for the Jags, stepping on three Bills players’ heads along the way, I look to Jamal for explanation.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the defense’s reputation. Can’t stop the run, can’t get pressure on the passer.”
But that’s ...that’s everything, Jamal. The defense is bad at everything.
“Yeah.”
A few plays later, they let Garrard, the Jaguars buoyant quarterback, dance to an eight yard gain on a broken play.
“I didn’t think he could move like that,” I say to Jamal.
“I don’t think he can.”
Nope. I can’t go out like this. When the game ends mercifully in a 36-26 loss for the Bills, I say my goodbyes to Jamal and his pappy and resolve to look ahead a couple weeks to make sure I’m where I need to be. To that end, here’s a list – an actual list – to keep me organized:
Patriots
Giants
Jets
Steelers
Only good games from here on out, I promise, even it means standing elbow-to-elbow with undergrads in Georgetown or showing up a half-hour early for a spot at the bar in Adams Morgan…on a Monday night. Eff it, I'll drink a Red Bull. My new motto is go where the action is, be grateful that you can get to it and sleep (or be a Bills fan) when you die.
No comments:
Post a Comment