Trust me, given the way that some people act based on their beliefs in any of the three, I definitely consider my lack of faith a blessing, not a curse.
* * *
My response upon recently seeing this insert in the local, alleged newspaper was "[expletive]." Immediately followed by "[move expletives]."
I think I summed it up pretty well with that, actually, but I'll persevere all the same.
This insert appeared in the Sunday, September 18 issue of the Pittsburgh (where else?) Post-Gazette. Knowing the local populace as I do, now entering my fifth year as a stealth observer, I'm sure within the hour the vendor sold out of the advertised product. This is just the sort of objet d'art that would appeal to the football-loving masses of our fair-to-middlin' region.
(Although exactly what objet this is, I cannot exactly say. What is this thing that claims to be the #1 Steelers Fan? A Cabbage Patch doll that doubles as a "wee station" for the family dog?)
Having said that, Pittsburghers are a fairly cut-to-the-chase kind of people. They are not necessarily prone to waxing romantic over much, more matter-of-fact, and song-of-the-Volga-boat-people resigned-to-life than anything. It must be all that Scottish-German-Russian-Czech-Slovak-Polish-Serbian-Croatian-Bulgarian heritage at play.
But on one point, they will become animated: Football.
The passion over football is hard for me to fathom. For one thing, has there ever been a more ponderous, rule-laden game with a more ridiculously officious nomenclature in the history of humankind? "Excessive celebration." "Palpably unfair act." "Encroachment." "Illegal batting." Who came up with the rules for this game, the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI)? How can you enjoy something that sounds more like an old episode of Dragnet than a game? Whenever I listen to the "color" commentary of sportcasters this time of year, I feel like I'm hearing an overexcited copy read straight from the police blotter.
For another thing, too much padding, not enough patting. I don't think that statement requires further explanation, but for clarification's sake, I'll just add that a little less clothing, a few more outlines, and a lot more male bonding would make the game far more interesting, at least to me. After all, the cheap homoeroticism is the only thing that makes all those UFC matches on cable the least bit bearable. So why not lend a buddy a helping hand in football as well?
And for the final thing: I grew up in North Carolina, which is a basketball province, not a football state (or, if you insist, a nation, as in Steeler Nation). While there are certainly football games in the fall, there's other stuff going on, too. Like harvests, holidays, and hurricanes. We save our passion for basketball season, which everyone focuses on once they recover from the rich foods and sneaked-in alcohol of Christmas and New Year's. When the temperatures turn colder--say, maybe 50s F during the day? Hey, it's the South, y'all--and it's too brutal to venture outside, we hunker down with our snacks, more sneaked-in alcohol, and our best bud, cable TV.
Everything comes to a screeching halt during the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) Tournament and later, the NCAA's so-called "March Madness." (A note for our international readers: No, March Madness is not some sort of Easter Holiday Weekend mattress sale.) During this time, it would not be uncommon to take off time from work or school to watch afternoon games--or just wheel a TV into the office and let everyone view. Productivity may go down a tad--or not!--but everyone will be happier. And a happy workplace is one less likely to call in sick during the State-Carolina match-up.
By April it's all over but the crowing over who has the best team in the ACC and the NCAA. We don't see the need to stretch the season out into May or, heaven forbid, June. Yes, I'm talking to you, NBA and NHL. We have lives after all. And more TV to watch.
Nevertheless, even North Carolina's obsession with all things "Carolina Blue," the Duke Blue Devils, the N.C. State "Wufpack," or the Wake Forest Demon Deacons (and if you've ever dealt with a Southern Baptist deacon, you'd understand how well-named that team is), falters badly in comparison to, well, any sport taking place in and around Lawrence, Kansas (where I have family), or football in Western Pennsylvania. North Carolinians just don't get what a bunch of puppy-lovers we/they are when it comes to the dangerous, obsessive, boiled rabbit-styled love that exists between the partisans of Steeler Nation and their warrior-soldiers, the Steelers.
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It's not pretty, that's for sure. While fans are undoubtedly loyal, when the team screws up or disappoints for an extended period of time--or loses to Baltimore, Cleveland, or Cincinnati--well, watch out! The wailing and gnashing of teeth, the wounded cries, the vitriolic public remonstrations on talk radio and TV. Pittsburgh hath no fury like a Steeler Nation scorned. Perhaps in this case it's our Southern European heritage rising to the occasion. At moments like these, I half-expect to see a million Rosaria Parondis down at Market Square, male and female, hysterically crying while pulling out their hair and rending their black-and-gold garments in the most exquisite, football-induced torment imaginable.
But with a well-timed win, a Superbowl berth, or a seemingly earnest apology from quarterback Big Ben Roethisberger, all is quickly forgiven.
Slap me, hurt me, cheat on me, disappoint me, accost me in a nightclub restroom in Georgia, I don't care--just win! Truly only an obsessive love like this could deliver us from heartbreak so quickly--not to mention, impel us to prove our undying love revery game day by dressing like a ridiculous swarm bumblebees.
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