NFL is tough for me as I've got limited experience with Eagles. So I can't comment, yet I'll take your word. The Raiders, Browns, and Cowboys all made me want to shower after an encounter. Mean, delusional, and obsessed with male balls. Not the inflatable ones, but the others. As in talking about them in my undergrad class. Loudly. I'm glad this got posted, it's how I judge teams in general.
In West Virginia, the tale of two sides take the cake. Mountaineer fans are ridiculous. I wear my Cane stuff to the gym, in stores, and I really don't think about it. Orange is my second skin. So Subject M is behind me in the grocery store line. I'm in a hurry. All I have is my almond milk, because regular milk is way too manly. I've accepted my lot in life.
Mumble, mumble. Then again. I glance, then he speaks. This is phonetic, else it's tough to understand. "Wha-yew duen witch hatta thar?"
Part of how I make money is I narrate and produce audiobooks. I read and listen a lot. So I asked Subject M to repeat the question until I got the gist. I like to be cordial, because this bloody state is sociopath central. I'd rather not get molested by banjos or whatever they're doing this week. Finally, I got the gist. I told him that the Canes were my team since age three. That the NFL is hard to watch post-Elway, thus my Super Bowl is when the Canes play the Noles. "Ye betturd wash yureself rount hea."
"Or what?"
I try to behave myself because of PTSD, but it's difficult. I'm not a good and kind person, but I try extremely hard to be. Rude is my thing. I can't take it. Unfortunately, my responses are usually nasty. "Whach ewe saya?"
You get it. He's tough and mean and big and strong. His camo hat and deer carcass tattoos told the world that he ripped the heads off of unicorns and didn't take sass from anyone. I asked him about the consequences, because a sick part of me was genuinely curious. The word bounced off of his lizard brain, so I raised my voice. I wanted to know what would happen if I continued to wear this hat. I asked him if he would shoot me. Beat me up, pound my face like a WV government secretary's holes. I explained that I made a legal transaction and could show him the receipt. Would it satisfy him? Would the poe-lease be called and thus beaten for Semitic heritage? It made no sense for him to dislike Miami. No joining conference. Or schedule. It's nuts.
It was over. Go to the car, start the engine. Fellow spits tobacco in the road, no big. I pull out and head home. Stoplight. Behind me, a familiar face. Take a guess at what kind of vehicle M drove. Seriously, just guess. Vroom-vroom went the trolley. Four times. I drove around for a mile or so with M on my tail. I could hear the wail of Conway Twitty. Smell the mix of buffalo perspiration and his sister's pubes. I stopped in the middle of downtown, put it in park, and got out of the car. I waited, begging for him to beat me up. It's a lose-lose. I win, and I get arrested for cruelty to the mentally handicapped. I lose, and I live with the knowledge that Mr. Twitty was magically empowered by decades of inbreeding.
He drove off, middle finger in tow.
That was the fifth time a WVU fan followed me home because of an encounter they started. Marshall fans, however, are awesome. They're just happy to be at a football game. Happy to be alive. Childlike and infectious.
I hope my comrades in orange and green forgive the long post, but every time I use a public restroom I lift my feet off of the floor, So they won't get rubbed. By Subject M.
www.washingtonian.com
