Sports Nut

Why Patriots Fans Have Become Insufferable

Josh, I completely understand your loner mentality. I watched almost all of the 2003 and 2004 baseball playoffs by myself, wearing a Red Sox hat in a dark room. When it came to important Sox games, I was (prior to their eventual World Series win) such an explosive tinderbox of anger, neuroses, and weepy insecurity that I couldn’t bear to inflict myself on others.

In fact, at times I couldn’t bear to be with myself. When Grady Little left in Pedro Martinez on that fateful night we all remember, I actually stood up, left my living room, and listened from outside the doorway. I was 100 percent certain that doom was forthcoming, and some wise little corner of my brain decided that my fist should not remain within striking distance of my television. Luckily, post-2004, I’m able to watch Red Sox games without letting my self-worth and sanity hinge on the outcome.

As for the Pats, I love to watch in big, friendly groups. We all have a great time, because our team is generally kicking some other team’s ass! Which brings me to Chris’ point about hubristic Patriots fans.

I feel for you, Chris. I lived in Manhattan in 1999 and 2000, at the height of bullying Yankee triumphalism. Those fans were beyond insufferable. No doubt, Pats fans are equally nauseating these days. But allow me to make one or two points in our defense.

First, recall that the Patriots went through four decades of utter futility before suddenly morphing into a dynasty. At their low point in the early ‘90s, they were perhaps the worst franchise in all of sports, playing in the worst stadium in all of sports. (This message-board thread on “crazy Patriots history” nicely captures some of the kookier moments—like when a new head coach got electrocuted by the mic at his introductory press conference, or when a convict on prison work-release helped win a game.) Pats fans who’ve been around for a while can’t be lumped in with those spoiled, tradition-of-excellence Yankee fans. Pats fans have paid a lot of dues.

Second, and this is about fandom in general: It is possible to don many different fan identities over the course of our spectator lives. I remember after the Grady-Pedro game—in the midst of a near-psychotic but also strangely existential rage—I thought, “God hates the Red Sox, and I can’t understand why.” Just a few months later, a Carolina Panthers kickoff rolled out of bounds, starting the Patriots at their 40-yard line with just enough time to kick the winning field goal in Super Bowl XXXVIII. It was but one of countless favorable bounces and referee calls that had gone the Pats’ way in those years, and I thought, “God loves the Patriots, and I can’t understand why.”

I’ve been a wide-eyed, early-’80s Celtics fan who assumed they’d reach the NBA Finals every season until the end of time. I’ve been a beaten-down, current-day Celts fan who can scarcely stand to watch their pitifully feeble recent efforts. I’ve been a cringing, expect-the-worst Sox fan—and in 2004, I felt the ultimate in closure and relief. I’ve been a Pats fan rooting for them to lose their last game, so they could complete a 2-14 year and get the top draft pick (which they would of course fritter away on some overrated chump). And I’ve been an obnoxiously cocky Pats fan pulling for them to pad their dynastic legacy. Some day, I might even be a Bruins fan.

The point is, these are protean identities, and we shouldn’t be too hard on, say, Cubs fans who drown their sorrows in domestic beer instead of watching the game. Or Eagles fans who boo Jeff Garcia as he’s leading them to the playoffs. Or Pats fans feeling their oats. An entire region’s self-conception can radically change with one bounce of a ball—off Adam Vinatieri’s foot, or through Bill Buckner’s legs.

As for the game this weekend: Chris has driven me to pick the Pats. How will they do it? God knows how. But I’m sure He’ll come up with something.

Ron Borges, the comically bitter Boston Globe football columnist, overcame his bile for long enough to participate in a surprisingly illuminating Web chat the other day. Borges predicted that the Pats will spread their defensive ends out wide, to minimize LaDainian Tomlinson’s ability to bounce toward the sidelines. I know—from watching the “Belichick Breakdowns” segment on my commemorative DVD—that the Pats used a similar strategy against the Eagles in Super Bowl XXXIX, in an effort to contain Brian Westbrook. Tomlinson can also, I’m sure, expect to be manhandled the way Marshall Faulk was by the Pats in their first Super Bowl win, when they brutalized Faulk each time he went out on a pass route. I have no idea how the Pats will defend tight end Antonio Gates, who—short of a double-team—they seem to have no answer for.

But while everyone is talking about the skill positions, these games are really won in the trenches. I have great faith in the Pats’ defensive line, which is among the best in football. On offense, I’m feeling a whole lot better about the Pats’ pass protection. Earlier this year, the Jets killed them with an onslaught of blitzes. But last week the Pats shut those Jets schemes down and gave Tom Brady ample time. Whether they can do this against the Chargers’ superior rushers remains to be seen.

I just hope it doesn’t come down to a controversial call. Because I can’t take the refs seriously in their new outfits. Last week, they came out with the familiar black-and-white garbage bags on top—but they added those awkward, striped pants that look like NBA tear-away warm-ups. I half expected the line judge to rip his off after the coin flip and expose a pair of culottes.

Speaking of fashion, the Chargers are fools if they don’t play in their supersweet, powder-blue throwback unis. I fear those things. They’re so darn pretty!

Oh, and one last sartorial note: Junior Seau, who has played for both the Chargers and the Patriots, is being sued for allegedly telling a woman at a San Diego bar, “Put your shirt on, your tits are too small!” The suit also says he called another woman … the bad word. You stay classy, San Diego!

And you too, Chris. Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.