I first wrote this post on my old blog back in 2011. Tonight, as Rutgers takes on UMASS, I am reposting and reliving and remembering every bit of this story. College football, to me, will always be the best football!
Loyal Sons
As a born and bred New England girl, there are some elements of my person that aren't very surprising. When I'm under stress (read: exhausted or inebriated), my speech pattern resembles that of Amy Adams in The Fighter. I suffer the famous "Irish Whisper" (also known as, "sometimes I yell when I talk"), a gift that I blame on competing with my four younger siblings to get our parents' attention (She who screams loudest gets answer -- ancient Irish proverb). In high school, I smoothed my very wavy hair with an actual iron so it would lie flat against my head (still have the scars), and the amount of F-bombs I can drop in a single sentence could stun even a well-seasoned sailor (I try to restrain myself on the ol' blog for my readers' sakes).
We New Englanders take a lot of pride in our Pro sports teams. I could name the starting lineup for the Red Sox beginning at the ripe old age of five. I don't really care about basketball, but I know most of the rules and the major players for the Celtics and once, in the fourth grade, I forever sacrificed my pinky finger's range of mobility in an effort to show the boys that yes, girls can TOO play (and thus ended my illustrious basketball career). I followed the Bruins BEFORE they made their run for the Stanley Cup, and in a region where college hockey might as well be pro, I went to a university that lives, breathes and bleeds Hockey East glory (NCAA titles, on the other hand....not so much. GO WILDCATS!).
As for the Patriots? The vaunted, love-em-or-hate-em, did-they-or-didn't-they? enigma that is the New England Patriots? I love them, too, and spend every Sunday next to Andrew in jeans and a Brady jersey, cheering and screaming and sometimes swearing louder than he does (see above). Our neighbors probably hate us, but tough shit -- if you want to fit in 'round these parts, you learn that In Bill We Trust and how to live the Patriot Way. Or else.
The thing is, while I do love the Pats and lust after our shagadelic quarterback (though the entire world knows that physically, I'd take Matt Cassel), I harbor a dark little secret. One that a lot of my northeastern-bred friends just don't understand.
Because while it's true that I learned to love football growing up, the Pros had nothing to do with it.
My pigskin loyalties were bred with the other kind, the BEST kind, of football:
The loyal son of a proud Rutgers alumnus, my Dad grew up in Nawth Jerzey in the same town where The Sopranos was filmed, screaming, "Up stream, Red Team!", eating hoagies and sporting a sweet Donny Osmond haircut. At 18, he packed up his belongings and set out for the only other acceptable football mecca in the northeast, Boston College.
Those were the pre-Flutie years but needless to say, once a hundred whispered Hail Marys were answered and that famous football arched through the sky and landed safely in the endzone, college football exploded in these parts for the first time. The day after I was born, Dad barely made it back because he was busy cheering on his alma mater at the BC-Notre Dame game. I spent my childhood Saturdays eating chicken fingers and real NJ hoagies, screamin' for the Eagles and swearing never to attend no stinkin' Syracuse. In our world, Saturdays were for football; Sundays were for Church.
One of my favorite traditions was the annual BC/Rutgers game, an event that included either a 5-hour pilgrimage to Gramma and Pa's or the invitation to join them at their hotel here in Boston, depending on who had home field advantage. Once a year, my mom, dad, brothers, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and I were all together, sitting in a parking lot, eating a meticulously packed tailgate and laughing over beverages (beer for the grownups; soda for us kids). Though one of my Aunts had followed my Grandpa's footsteps to Rutgers, the BC crowd always had the advantage; I always suspected the reason Dad had so many kids was so that he could create a miniature army swathed in maroon and gold, destined to dominate on GameDay. We stayed until the end, no matter the score, because as Pa would say, "you never desert your team" and you ALWAYS stay to listen to the marching band play "Loyal Sons", regardless of who won.
It was at these games, college games, that I learned the rules of a game that would some day, over a series of Sundays, impress Andrew enough that he asked me to dinner.
Back in those days, Dad had season tickets. He kept them straight up until BC deserted the BigEast and our favorite foes, opting instead to funnel their dollars into the pockets of the ACC. At that point, he gave his tickets up in protest, because he didn't want to watch his team play a bunch of far-away schools with big-name talent. If he didn't have to explain to his kids what the eff a Hokie was (a big orange loser, that's what!), he wanted no part of it. It also didn't help BC's cause that when I received my lifetime-awaited envelope from them eight years ago, it was of the small, thin "We had an impressive pool of applicants..." variety rather than the big, fat, "Welcome to the Class of 2007!" kind.
We He might still be bitter.
Between that, attending a college where hockey games sell out in minutes but football is a forgotten afterthought and dating a man who seriously would have cried if the NFL lockout didn't end in time for the season to start, I've drifted away from my collegiate football roots. Andrew has never been a fan, and "just can't understand the appeal of rooting for a team of a school you didn't even go to", and most of my friends either went to private colleges within a 5-hour drive or attended the same hockey-centric public university that I did. I know that I could watch on my own, but 90% of the fun of college football is sharing it with your fellow fans. Plus, I just don't have the time anymore.
Now, Saturdays are for long runs and errands; Sundays (and Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays) are for football.
My good friend, Katie from Once a Southern Belle, Always a Southern Belle, is a born-and-bred Texan. As such, she is the epitome of all that is right about college football: gameday snacks, cute outfits in coordinating colors with diehard loyalties and friendly rivalries shared amongst family and friends. Her excitement and enthusiasm for last weekend's NCAA kick-off weekend, as well as that of all the other fab Southern-school bloggers she has gotten me hooked on, was palpable.
And on Saturday, as I was scouring the internet for two tickets under $300 for next Sunday's Patriots home opener (an anniversary present for Andrew), my Twitter feed filled at an impressive rate with #GoBigSchool!, rankings and Heisman predictions. The streets of Boston and the T were full of obnoxious Northwestern students and drunken SuperFans stumbling home from BC's home opener. And in the midst of all this, three words crossed my mind.
Color me jealous.
We New Englanders take a lot of pride in our Pro sports teams. I could name the starting lineup for the Red Sox beginning at the ripe old age of five. I don't really care about basketball, but I know most of the rules and the major players for the Celtics and once, in the fourth grade, I forever sacrificed my pinky finger's range of mobility in an effort to show the boys that yes, girls can TOO play (and thus ended my illustrious basketball career). I followed the Bruins BEFORE they made their run for the Stanley Cup, and in a region where college hockey might as well be pro, I went to a university that lives, breathes and bleeds Hockey East glory (NCAA titles, on the other hand....not so much. GO WILDCATS!).
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| [Source] |
As for the Patriots? The vaunted, love-em-or-hate-em, did-they-or-didn't-they? enigma that is the New England Patriots? I love them, too, and spend every Sunday next to Andrew in jeans and a Brady jersey, cheering and screaming and sometimes swearing louder than he does (see above). Our neighbors probably hate us, but tough shit -- if you want to fit in 'round these parts, you learn that In Bill We Trust and how to live the Patriot Way. Or else.
The thing is, while I do love the Pats and lust after our shagadelic quarterback (though the entire world knows that physically, I'd take Matt Cassel), I harbor a dark little secret. One that a lot of my northeastern-bred friends just don't understand.
Because while it's true that I learned to love football growing up, the Pros had nothing to do with it.
My pigskin loyalties were bred with the other kind, the BEST kind, of football:
COLLEGE football.
 |
| [Source] |
The loyal son of a proud Rutgers alumnus, my Dad grew up in Nawth Jerzey in the same town where The Sopranos was filmed, screaming, "Up stream, Red Team!", eating hoagies and sporting a sweet Donny Osmond haircut. At 18, he packed up his belongings and set out for the only other acceptable football mecca in the northeast, Boston College.
Those were the pre-Flutie years but needless to say, once a hundred whispered Hail Marys were answered and that famous football arched through the sky and landed safely in the endzone, college football exploded in these parts for the first time. The day after I was born, Dad barely made it back because he was busy cheering on his alma mater at the BC-Notre Dame game. I spent my childhood Saturdays eating chicken fingers and real NJ hoagies, screamin' for the Eagles and swearing never to attend no stinkin' Syracuse. In our world, Saturdays were for football; Sundays were for Church.
One of my favorite traditions was the annual BC/Rutgers game, an event that included either a 5-hour pilgrimage to Gramma and Pa's or the invitation to join them at their hotel here in Boston, depending on who had home field advantage. Once a year, my mom, dad, brothers, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and I were all together, sitting in a parking lot, eating a meticulously packed tailgate and laughing over beverages (beer for the grownups; soda for us kids). Though one of my Aunts had followed my Grandpa's footsteps to Rutgers, the BC crowd always had the advantage; I always suspected the reason Dad had so many kids was so that he could create a miniature army swathed in maroon and gold, destined to dominate on GameDay. We stayed until the end, no matter the score, because as Pa would say, "you never desert your team" and you ALWAYS stay to listen to the marching band play "Loyal Sons", regardless of who won.
 |
| The man responsible for my refusal to EVER leave before the end! |
It was at these games, college games, that I learned the rules of a game that would some day, over a series of Sundays, impress Andrew enough that he asked me to dinner.
Back in those days, Dad had season tickets. He kept them straight up until BC deserted the BigEast and our favorite foes, opting instead to funnel their dollars into the pockets of the ACC. At that point, he gave his tickets up in protest, because he didn't want to watch his team play a bunch of far-away schools with big-name talent. If he didn't have to explain to his kids what the eff a Hokie was (a big orange loser, that's what!), he wanted no part of it. It also didn't help BC's cause that when I received my lifetime-awaited envelope from them eight years ago, it was of the small, thin "We had an impressive pool of applicants..." variety rather than the big, fat, "Welcome to the Class of 2007!" kind.
Between that, attending a college where hockey games sell out in minutes but football is a forgotten afterthought and dating a man who seriously would have cried if the NFL lockout didn't end in time for the season to start, I've drifted away from my collegiate football roots. Andrew has never been a fan, and "just can't understand the appeal of rooting for a team of a school you didn't even go to", and most of my friends either went to private colleges within a 5-hour drive or attended the same hockey-centric public university that I did. I know that I could watch on my own, but 90% of the fun of college football is sharing it with your fellow fans. Plus, I just don't have the time anymore.
Now, Saturdays are for long runs and errands; Sundays (and Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays) are for football.
My good friend, Katie from Once a Southern Belle, Always a Southern Belle, is a born-and-bred Texan. As such, she is the epitome of all that is right about college football: gameday snacks, cute outfits in coordinating colors with diehard loyalties and friendly rivalries shared amongst family and friends. Her excitement and enthusiasm for last weekend's NCAA kick-off weekend, as well as that of all the other fab Southern-school bloggers she has gotten me hooked on, was palpable.
And on Saturday, as I was scouring the internet for two tickets under $300 for next Sunday's Patriots home opener (an anniversary present for Andrew), my Twitter feed filled at an impressive rate with #GoBigSchool!, rankings and Heisman predictions. The streets of Boston and the T were full of obnoxious Northwestern students and drunken SuperFans stumbling home from BC's home opener. And in the midst of all this, three words crossed my mind.
Color me jealous.
