This past week’s pro football storylines were, in a word, beautiful. First of all, before the games even began, there was the matter of Rush Limbaugh wanting to become an owner of the St. Louis Rams. The Rams totally suck this year, so something in Limbaugh’s wanting a piece of them feels, I don’t know, almost tender. But Limbaugh has made a few football-oriented gaffes in his day, like when he worked for ESPN several years ago (surreal but true) and made controversial remarks about Philly’s Donovan McNabb being babied by the media because he was a black quarterback. Now some black NFL players are suggesting that they would refuse to play for a team that belonged to Rush.
As a football fan and a human being, I would like Limbaugh to be barred from any ownership position in the league. But as a sports columnist, it’s difficult material to pass up.
The games last weekend were even better than the off-field distractions. The Denver Broncos and their 12-year-old head coach fought their way to victory against Bill Belichik and the Patriots. (The best thing about this game: the Broncos’ mustard-colored retro uniforms, complete with stripe-y socks.) In another dramatic finish, the Bengals beat the Ravens at the last minute. And best of all, by far: the Miami Dolphins, wearing bright orange jerseys seemingly designed by a hunting safety expert, wildcatted their way to a win against their arch-nemeses, the New York Jets.
What does it mean to “wildcat”? More on that later.
I have always loved the Dolphins even though I’ve never set foot in Miami. I have the wardrobe to prove my fanaticism, but I keep every article of Dolfan fashion I own hidden.
I haven’t worn my orange-and-teal Miami Dolphins Zubaz pants—those amazing NFL artifacts from the early 1990s—since I was a college student in New England fifteen years ago. During my first semester, I wore the pants on campus every Sunday during football season. Was that really me back then, insisting that everyone in my vicinity notice my loyalty to a pro sports franchise? Yes. I even inspired my friend Matt, a Buffalo Bills fanatic who lived down the hall, to buy his own Zubaz pants, slashed with the red-and-royal-blue of his favorite franchise.
These days I don’t even wear my plain gray Miami Dolphins sweatshirt outside of the apartment. I almost never wear any of my Dolphins hats, or my old #13 aqua-green Dan Marino jersey, even inside the apartment. I live in Brooklyn; one time I took out the trash with my Fins sweatshirt on and I felt like the neighbors were watching me through their windows, taking notes.
A Brooklynite for nearly ten years now, I’m not usually aware that I live among Jets and Giants fans. But football season always feels a little strange, because that’s when these loyalties really matter.
For instance, when the Dolphins employed their tricky college-style wildcat offense on Monday night against the Jets, I loved every minute of it. I loved that the Dolphins used everything in their playbook to beat the Jets. And—this is the ugly part, I suppose—I loved that the Jets lost. It was a real pleasure to read the NY Times sports section the next morning, with all the tearful belly-aching by Jets coaches and players who felt frustrated and cheated because their vaunted defense got shredded by strategic tomfoolery.
I know the Jets, fired by a home crowd and vengeful rage, are probably going to kill the Fins when Miami visits New York in a couple weeks. Then I probably won’t even read the sports pages for a week or so, just to make sure I avoid all the smug “journalism” about how the Jets turned the tables. That’s the flip-side of living behind enemy lines.
