And yet if you ask me why I chose the Vikings, I will tell you that I have no idea, nor recollection of ever not rooting for them. My first memory? Bud Grant, the Hall of Fame coach, standing stoicly on the sideline, with his arms folded. Ask my mother.
I know I’m not alone. Other men and women who grew up in the Northeast in the early ’70s inexplicably adopted Alan Page, Chuck Foreman, Paul Krause and, of course, Fran Tarkenton as their football family despite having better local options. Many of us have no earthly connection to the Twin Cities, no coherent reason to point to the team that, at the time, was regularly losing Super Bowls and proclaim, “Those are my boys.” And yet, there was a fateful moment in our childhoods when we rolled the dice. And lost.
But I guess those are separate issues: why does someone become a fan of a random team? That’s easy. The uniform color or maybe a superstar player. Those fans generally grow out of it; and when old photographs of them wearing the team’s pompom hat appear, they laugh it off.
But why does someone remain in a team’s thrall, even after having one’s heart surgically implanted in one’s throat? That’s a good question. Some fans like winners — which is why the Steelers’ and Cowboys’ bars are usually overflowing with boisterous supporters.
I was determined to stick with the Vikings through thin and thinner because I value loyalty and, in some perverse way, I think it shows strength of character. Even when the Giants were winning Super Bowls, I dug in my heels. If the Vikings’ ship was going down, I was going down with it.
In the past 40 seasons, I have done just that. If pressed, I would also admit I’m convinced that the moment I betray the Vikings, they will win the Super Bowl.
We New York football fans who find the Giants grim automatons and the Jets boastful clowns have it tough on weekends. And so Vikings fans generally congregate at Bar None on Second Avenue in Manhattan for games, scattered amid the transplanted Minnesotans, rooting but with none of the Midwesterners’ hopefulness or “We’ll get ’em next week” attitude. With us, there’s a grim acceptance that no matter the score after three quarters, the fourth quarter is rarely ours. But we show up every week, and we suffer the indignities along with the fumbles. It’s like a family dinner: there may be bad blood, but at the end of the day, all you have is one another.
When I reached my mid-20s, I began pilgrimages to the Metrodome. After a lifetime of being the odd man out, I felt at home. The fans all wore purple and knew the lyrics to “Skol Vikings.” They covered their eyes during key moments, and they gave the quarterback the benefit of the doubt. And for once, no one asked me about the provenance of my Keith Millard jersey.
Now I travel to Minnesota several times a season because I feel that in some way, my sacrifice could tip cosmic scales in the team’s favor. On one occasion, I flew a 14 ½-hour odyssey with four stops just to see them lose the 1998 N.F.C. championship game to the Atlanta Falcons after Gary Anderson chose an inopportune time to miss his first kick of the season.
I have spent many afternoons being pelted with snow and hail. And I have defrosted my beard in a hotel room sink more times than I can count. I’ve been snowed out, and I’ve been snowed in. Last season, I tried to fly into the mid-December snowstorm that eventually flattened the dome’s roof, but cooler heads (and Northwest pilots) prevailed.
I went to Minneapolis for the home opener last month. It was a howler of a loss to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, 24-20, as the Vikings blew a 17-0 halftime lead in a manner that I still find difficult to process. After the final play, I hurriedly said goodbye to my partner in crime Mike Edelstein, who had joined me from London, and barely caught my flight back to New York.
Mike is relatively new to the Vikings. Three years ago, he accompanied me to a game — a pathetic loss to the Indianapolis Colts in which the defense mauled Peyton Manning, but with Tarvaris Jackson at the helm, the Vikings managed five field goals and lost, 18-15. After the game, the crowd groaned, the players looked forlorn and Mike was grinning.
“Next time, mate,” he said as we shuffled out. He was, inexplicably, hooked.
When Minnesota lost the 2009 N.F.C. championship game to the New Orleans Saints after turning the ball over five times, it was nearly 4 a.m. in London. Mike was watching it live, in his Steve Hutchinson jersey, while we traded text messages. After Brett Favre threw the late interception (as I had warned him Favre would) and just before my wife blocked me from throwing my Kevin Williams jersey from the living room window, I called him.
Mike was hoarse, grief-stricken and sputtering with rage. He had a million complaints, about bad calls, noncalls, poor coaching decisions and terrible luck — the four horsemen of Vikings fandom. I listened sympathetically, but all I had to offer him was, “Welcome home.”
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Published: December 26th, 2010 | Tags: Anthony Fasano, Arrelious Benn, Calvin Johnson, Carlos Rogers, Champ Bailey, Chris Houston, David Nelson, Dennis Pitta, Earnest Graham, James Ihedigbo, Keaston Kristick, Knowshon Moreno, Lee Robinson, Lydon Murtha, Matt Hasselbeck, Mike Tolbert, Morgan Cox, Nolan Carroll, Phillip Adams, Tavares Gooden, Week 16 injuries 2010, Zach Miller