It was 1998. I was waiting tables at The Green Mill after college like any good aspiring actor (but not actually going on any auditions) when the strangest thing happened: I became a Minnesota Vikings fan.
I did not like football when I was a kid. My dad played in high school and college, and refereed for the high school games when I was young. While I understood hockey and baseball, and enjoyed playing both, football seemed confusing. Also, I couldn’t throw a spiral to save my life (still can’t). As I grew older, the football team were at least partially a bunch of guys who weren’t always very nice to my nerdy, drama/choir loving self. Oh, I went to all the football games, but it was to flirt with boys and cheer on my friends in the marching band.
All of this is to say, it was quite a shock to find myself a rabid Vikings fan in the fall of 1998. To be fair, it is difficult to work in a sports bar and not get caught up in the emotion of it all. More importantly, if you know anything about Vikings football you know that 1998 was A Year of Years. Jeff George was a solid QB with a host of stars surrounding him: Robert Smith, Cris Carter, and Randy Moss. That season was breathlessly exciting — the fervor that could only be matched with the crushing despondency that comes with that infamous Gary Anderson field goal fail. Minnesotans cannot speak of it without getting verklempt.
At any rate, that season was a turning point for me at my core, and I was not alone in noticing. I was out for a drink with friends and the conversation wound its way around to the Vikings’ exciting season. Lehto — who has made an appearance in several of my stories — stared at me with the strangest look on his face. “What?” I said, feeling self-conscious. Starting to giggle in the way that only he can, Lehto spluttered, “I just can’t believe you’re sitting here and talking intelligently about football!” He was not insulting my general intelligence, rather he was shocked and pleased that I reversed my long-standing disdain for this sport.
Adding “Rabid Vikings Fan” to my personality made it easier to fold myself into conversations where my vast knowledge of musical theater and Buffy the Vampire Slayer didn’t click with anyone in the vicinity. It certainly greased the wheels with my future father-in-law, who apparently thought Dan struck gold when it turned out I liked the Vikings AND happened to be a Democrat! I was able to get to know people quickly in new schools when I joined their football pools — while not nearly as complicated or time-consuming as Fantasy Football, the pool inspired a lot of good-natured teasing which is one of my comfort zones.
My commitment to the Vikes has waned somewhat over the past decade — not because of our historical tendency to choke in the playoffs, but more because some aspects of professional football have left me feeling uncomfortable. The injuries, the massive amounts of money flying around, and the violence that hovers in and around the sport all contribute to some distaste on my part and I struggle.
Of course, right around the time I was cooling on pro football, my son came along and decided to pick up the pigskin. Deer River — where I teach and Billy goes to school — has a long tradition of great football. In fact, this fall we are celebrating 100 years of Warriors football, as well as 50 years of Pony League.
Speaking of Pony League: I cannot say enough good things about our experience here. Kids can join in 4th grade and play through 6th, which means three years of working with mostly the same coaches, and most of the teammates they would continue to play with all the way through high school. Those coaches — those dads — were the most patient and hilarious and tough and loving of humans, and they still talk to all of our kids like coaches and dads.
I can’t say that football doesn’t scare me to death. I can’t help being thankful that Billy is still on the small side, and doesn’t yet get much Varsity playing time. I cringe watching these children plow into each other as hard as they can, even while my soul thrills to the magic of the Friday Night Lights. I doubt this inner conflict is going to lessen for me as Billy grows to be a junior, a senior, with more time facing off against these apparent MUTANT GIANTS on the opposing teams. Much like with the dirt bike that Dan brought home, I have to swallow my anxiety and watch my kid do what my kid does. Parenting: not for the faint of heart.
One of my favorite classes of students that I’ve taught are the ones who are graduating this year, and they were the 6th graders when Billy joined Pony League in 4th grade. These are the boys who showed Billy not only how to play the game, but how to behave playing the game. They teased him and taught him and praised him and called him out — they’re still doing it. I find myself with tears in my eyes sometimes, watching all of those kids on the sidelines, ribbing and caring for each other.
I am so, so lucky to teach in this district, in this community. I am able to sit in crowded stands of blue and gold-clad fans, most of whom I know or at least recognize. I greet and hug current and former students, and chat with their parents who often call me “Mrs. Loeffler” just as their children do. Even after Billy flies the Deer River coop, I will still know all of those football players, because they all passed through my classroom at one time or another. I will shout their names as I leap to my feet to cheer their victories, and remember vaguely the days when I didn’t know a first down from a two-point conversion.
By the way, the Vikes are shaping up to have a great season… so heartbreak is most likely imminent. Think good thoughts for us.
Thanks for reading.
Love, Susie
That last line. Chef's kiss!
Oh, Susie - you almost always manage to make me laugh - and think - and appreciate what a good mom and teacher and human being you are. Thanks for writing!