I didn’t grow up in the cult of SEC and NFL football. I picked teams by the color of the jerseys and basically ate nachos instead of watching for first downs. Despite having the privilege of going to several Denver Broncos games with my uncle — a proud season pass holder — I mostly looked at the horses and cheerleaders.
My mother is a die-hard Alabama fan, but she never instilled in me the proper Southern SEC football worship habits. When I came to the University of Mississippi, she decided she would pretend to support Ole Miss football for me – despite my lack of appreciation. My first semester, I went groving, another experience I didn’t appreciate. My step-aunt and uncle are loyal Ole Miss fans, going so far as owning a home in Oxford and setting up a tent every home game in front of Lamar. I couldn’t appreciate the almost-reverent atmosphere.
I didn’t make a turnaround in regards to football until my junior year. After years of getting friends to explain little moves and rules regarding football, I finally started cheering on accident. I watched an Ole Miss game and finally felt that rush of heat to my face when we made a bad play. It seemed to snowball from there.
I never sought out games, but I enjoyed them when they were on. I’d quickly pick a team to root for (if one of mine wasn’t playing), and I’d learned enough lingo to appropriately root for them or criticize bad plays. Before I knew it, I was even checking scores online for my Broncos and Landsharks when I didn’t get a chance to watch.
The first time I sought out a game purposefully was this year’s game against Alabama. Despite searching, I couldn’t find a place to watch it and kept up to date with Twitter (which will always update faster than Google). I cheered when we did well, and I cursed when we failed. During the Egg Bowl, I sat with my mom’s neighbors, drinking beer and hollering like a real fan. My mom gloated over Alabama’s victory earlier that night, but I was too excited to care. Whether or not I had intended it, football had grown on me.
This weekend, Superbowl 50 features one of my teams. With my newfound appreciation for the South’s favorite sport, I’m giddily anticipating how they will do. I believe in Peyton Manning more than I believe in any religion, and that man better not let me down again. I only wish I could be in Colorado to watch the game with my grandparents and father, the other die-hard fans in my life.
I still don’t love football, but, like a proper lapsed practitioner, I appreciate it and pay reverence at the important holy dates—the Egg Bowl and the Superbowl.
