Football Used to be Funnier

Football used to crack me up, mostly because I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t raised in a football-watching family. In fact, on any given Sunday afternoon, there was a far greater chance my family would be watching Bob Hope on the Road to Rio than the Rams on the Road to Denver. (And yes, I vaguely remember the Rams being in Los Angeles.)

However, when you grow up in Southern California, you can get away with football non-fandom. There are so many people, cultures, interests and activities, you could live a lifetime in Los Angeles without ever watching or desiring to watch a football game, and nobody would even notice or care.

Not so in Pittsburgh, where I’ve lived for several decades. The Steelers have traditionally been to Pittsburgh what the Vatican is to Rome – the heart, pride and soul of the city. Only the most dedicated, and slightly insane, non-conformist could resist the civic responsibility of all Western Pennsylvania citizens to bleed Black and Gold.

I learned this when I had only lived here a short time and attended an event where organizers literally pulled me from a group and stood me next to a tall, muscle-bound man wearing a Cowboy hat to take a photo. It all happened so fast, I had no idea what was going on. I just smiled for the photo, quickly moved out of the way for the next person to take a picture with the mysterious Cowboy, and then made the mistake of asking one of the organizers “who is that man in the Cowboy hat?”

The organizer looked at me, aghast, her eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s Mel Blount. Hall of Fame,” she said, clearly appalled by my ignorance.

That was the first time football cracked me up, because I never expected to feel like a felon for not recognizing a Super Important Hall of Fame Football Hero.

Football got even funnier when I started watching it on TV, because I discovered that football broadcasters speak in a nearly indiscernible language to call the plays of the game. From kickoff to the final second of the fourth quarter, baffling metaphors spew from the mouths of the sportscasters. I rarely understood what was happening on the field, but learned to love the colorful and excitable language of broadcasters. (I also suspect that if I ever had the chance to meet Pittsburgh broadcasting legend and Terrible Towel Creator, Myron Cope before his passing, I might not have understood the kooky machinations of his brain in simple small talk conversation, either.)

Point is, I learned to love football for all the funny hype, exhilaration and civic fervor it generates in Pittsburgh. I became a fan. I watched games, cheered and enjoyed being part of that international bond of fandom they call the “Steelers Nation.”

But football isn’t so funny anymore. I’m tired of hearing about how some of the masters of the game beat their wives and kids, abuse drugs and dogs, and sometimes even commit murder. Over the past few years, even our own hometown quarterback got in legal trouble more than once for behaving like a boorish idiot in bars. I’m sure not every football player is a rich, spoiled, self-important He-man, but it seems there are too many to count anymore.

As an indication of how much my interest in football has waned, I confess that I didn’t even know the Steelers were playing last Thursday night when the Baltimore Ravens, stinging from the fresh public disgrace of the Ray Rice controversy, beat them.

I do know that the Steelers are playing the Carolina Panthers next Sunday.

But I might just see if Bob Hope is on the Road to Utopia.

Please visit my website at http://annkhowley.com/#about-ann