My American Football Story

I am so happy today because a good friend sent me my very first long-read in English I'd written back in October 1996. I thought I lost it forever. It was published in the K-State alumni magazine. Reading it back now I keep thinking that it was idealistic, naive and in some places overly judgemental, but I was much younger and categorical then. Sorry if it comes across insensitive by today's standards.

***

As we walk through the campus to the football stadium, I am trying to pass my excitement to my companion, knowing from my own translator’s experience that it is always joyous and pleasant to share with a foreigner something that you take for granted. Psychologists call this phenomenon vicarious revival of positive experience.

Fortunately, I do not have to fake my excitement about the first American football game I am about to watch live. I hope that Bill, my savior who gave me the ticket, feels it too. I explain to him that although I have been studying at K-State for more than a year now, I have never been to a real football game. I tried to watch it once on TV, but there was no one to explain the rules and about 15 minutes later I gave up, having decided that it was more of a fight than a game and that the starting kick-off was the only resemblance to our true football (which here is called soccer), where the ball is indeed played by the foot.

Americans do take their football for granted. They are used to it so much that they do not understand why it is not included in the Olympics. They think that because it is so huge in the United States football rules the world. And it does indeed, but not the football that Americans are so proud of. What here is referred to as soccer, the rest of the world calls football, and it is enormously popular in Latin America, Europe, Asia, and Africa. Football does rule the world, it is just different footballs people are talking about.

So, I am finally going to watch a live American football game! And not just an ordinary game, but the biggest game of the Big 12 college football season! K-State, ranked the twelfth in the nation, plays Nebraska, last year’s national champion and this year’s sixth best team. Can K-State win? I’m going to find out myself, and I still cannot believe it, after so many failed attempts to sneak into the game.

Sneaking in was the only possible way to get to the game, because the tickets had been sold out six months before. One of my friends offered his extra ticket for $60 (so much for that friendship!), and I gave up on the possibility of going through the gate legitimately. At first, I had a brilliant idea to fake some press credentials. However, after my fellow graduate student, Bob, explained to me how strictly the press credentials were checked, I gave up on that idea, scared by a disgraced image of myself kicked out at the gate and possibly arrested for a fake ID. Bob volunteered to help me with a press pass, but his contact at the Athletic Department never called back, probably because the number of similar requests was far beyond his pass-issuing capabilities.

My second thought was to join a marching band. I shared this idea with a friend from the music department, hinting that if they had a dummy drum or some other easy instrument, I could imitate playing it without producing a sound. And I do know how to march in step. Justin looked at me as if I were mad and said “good luck” so sarcastically that I decided it was probably not a good idea after all.

As time was elapsing, my attempts became more and more desperate. Three days before the game I got friendly with one of the cheerleaders and asked her to take me to their practice. Having seen how much energy and time it takes, I realized that I was too old to join the cheerleaders, even only for a day. After that, I almost gave up. I was telling everyone about my failure and how badly I wanted to get into the game, hoping that people would take pity on me and help.

And they tried, as much as they could. “How about selling peanuts or coke during the game?” proposed one of my friends. “Get a boyfriend from the team,” advised another one. “Call coach Snyder and whine about how you, a poor foreign student. desperately want to watch the game but cannot get the ticket,” said the third. “Call president Wefald and maybe you will get those expensive presidential seats,” someone threw an idea to me. Why not, I thought, everything depends on how you present the matter. And with the high-ranking delegation from my home country coming the same weekend to Manhattan, I could pitch and get the tickets for them.

Except that Anne, who was arranging the delegation’s schedule, had already tried and failed. She probably talked to a wrong person, and I decided to try again. I had nothing to lose anyway. The main thing is just to get hold of the president himself. It did not work either. I was told that if I had called two days earlier they could have probably found the tickets for me but on the day before the game all tickets, even the presidential ones, had been given out. After this failure I gave up, blaming my bad luck.

But you never know who quickly luck can turn around. During the dinner with my home country delegation on Friday, Anne, who had always been a guardian angel to me, mentioned how desperately I wanted to watch the game. It turned out that Bill, the director of International Programs Office, had an extra ticket: his son could not go because he had to work that day. So, one person’s loss turned into my gain…

As we are approaching the stadium, I notice that the flow of people becomes heavier and heavier, turning into a huge moving ocean at the gate. “I have never seen so many people at one place at the same time,” I said to Bill. Not even in San Francisco, where I went to see the Phantom of the Opera.

It did not take us too long to find our seats on the eastern side of the stadium. The seats turned out to be perfect: almost right across the 50-yard line, they were high enough for us to see above other people's heads.

We still have about 45 minutes before the kick-off, and I just watch the stadium filling in and the Nebraska athletes warming up. K-State team is not in the field yet, and I find it amusing to watch how Nebraska players’ red pants move symmetrically across the field. Their movements were so synchronous that I started to laugh, having imagined these big guys dancing Macarena in all their grotesquely huge protected and padded gear and helmets.

Suddenly, the stadium exploded with applause and a cheering ‘U-u-h” and the K-State team in purple uniforms rolled into the field, like peas from a torn bag. Bill told me that the startup number of players was 11, but now I am surprised to point out that each team has at least 100 players. “They probably do,” Bill confirms my estimations. But this is because there are lots of substitutions during the game, and often the whole playing team is replaced entirely.

As spectators fill in, the stadium looks more and more like a spring flower field, with the dominating purple of forget-me-nots of Wildcat fans and red poppies of Nebraska fans scattered in small groups all over. There are two big red patches, one to our left, where most of Nebraska fans and their marching band sit, and the second, a smaller one, across from us to the right. I feel a little better for the Nebraska team now. I would hate to play in a rival school with no support, if I were them.

About 20 minutes before the beginning both teams retreat from the field, leaving it for entertainment. The stadium boos when a red happy balloon-looking Cornhusker enters the field from one end and crosses it, dancing rap. His hip-hopping steps, awkward and skillful at the same time because of the huge rubber-doll-looking costume, are so funny that even the hostile Wildcat fans start to clap in amusement.

The second Husker, wearing a big red cowboy hat and a bandana, looks more traditional and crosses the field almost unnoticed. Both Huskers start cheer-leading the big patch of the Nebraska fans. Off-guard, they do not notice Willie the Wildcat entering the field with a Nebraska red t-shirt crucified on a tree brunch. The crowd goes wild.

While the Huskers fans boo and the Wildcat supporters cheer, Willie takes the t-shirt off the branch and makes various abusive gestures supposedly symbolizing the Cat’s victory. Both Huskers try to stop him now, but he pushes away one of them aggressively and leaves the field to the side. For a while, I cannot see what is happening, but when the red t-shirt flies into the sky, mixed with and suppressed by the white-and-purple pom-poms, I feel uncomfortable. “If I were a Nebraska fan,” I said to Bill, “I would have been terribly insulted by this move.”

“They probably are,” he replied. “But this goes with the game.” The t-shirt abuse is followed by a selection of various football movie clips projected on the huge Trinitron monitor, followed by the marching band in fancy costumes carrying the shining instruments. Surprised by their number, glamour, perfectly coordinated movement and excellent performance, I am relieved to think that I am not among them. I definitely would have looked like a clown there.

The ceremonial part finishes with the national anthem performance, and the game starts with the Nebraska kick-off. Although Bill tried to explain the rules to me along the way, I am still lost and confused about what is happening. I do understand that the Wildcats are trying to advance into the Nebraska’s half of the field, but not always successfully. I can figure out when they succeed by the crowd’s cheering “A-a-ah” and disapproving “U-u-uh” when they fail.

I also try to follow the behavior of a couple in front of us, who rise and scream to support the Cats, and my neighbor on the left, a big guy of about 35 in a white t-shirt and a baseball cap, who throws a disappointed “Jesus Christ!” every time the Cats make a mistake. The crowd bursts with anger and disappointment when the Huskers score the first six points. This, however, increases the fans’ enthusiasm in supporting the Wildcats. The stadium now is nothing but one huge breathing and moving body, sighing loudly “U-u-uh” and “A-a-ah.” One more indication that something goes wrong is the behavior of a disguised Nebraska fan in a white t-shirt who sits in a row in front of us. She jumps, screams and stands up when everyone around her is quiet and frustrated, and I am surprised that even her husband is not as active as she is.

Most of the first quarter the Wildcats were playing by the pattern “One step forward, three steps back.” They seemed to be more impulsive and energetic, but the Huskers dominated by being much more methodical, consistent, and persistent. The quarter finished with Nebraska leading 6-0, but “nothing is lost yet,” as Bill assures me.

The second quarter starts with even bigger enthusiasm and cheering for the Wildcats. The fan support must have worked when suddenly the stadium bursts with applause, shouts “go, go, go!!” and the monitor shows the word “Interception.” The fans rise as a Wildcat player, who carried the ball deep into the Nebraska's side, is jumping with joy, and the team scores three points. I notice the time monitor showing 11:36. A spirit of hope hovers above the stadium: 3-6 is not a bad case for the Wildcats. The crowd is excited to see its favorites play decently for another seven minutes.

Although it is warm and sunny (as Bill said, the teams could not have asked for a better day), the wind is strong enough to interfere, and the Wildcats have to play against it. Ten minutes into the second quarter, one of the Cat's kicks goes almost vertical because of the wind, and the ball stone-dives right into a Husker's hands. The touchdown follows almost immediately, and my neighbor on the left spits through his teeth, “Damn it!!”. The Nebraska fan goes ballistic and does not calm down until her team scores additional three points at the end of the quarter.

“Who sold you the ticket?” I hear a voice addressing her from behind, but she doesn’t seem to pay attention. “I’d kill the guy!”

As the crowd leaves for the 20-minute half-time break, I feel people’s disappointment and frustration. I cannot stop thinking that many of them will not come back. Trying to switch to a more positive mood, we watch the Nebraska marching band performance, inspired by their team’s success, and later the ceremony of honoring the K-State Olympians, during which everyone was delightfully amused to see Kenny Harrison's trade-mark backflip performed live.

At the beginning of the third quarter I notice that we lost two Latino men sitting in front of us on the left, who were silently watching the game most of the first half. The guy from behind who was picking on the Nebraska fan has not come back either, and our favorite couple from the right front is not there. I am afraid that my suspicions about some fans not coming back are being confirmed.

Huskers strengthen their lead by a touchdown during the first minute of the third quarter. The Nebraska fan goes crazy again. At this point, my neighbor on the left is completely frustrated, as is his son, a boy of about 11, who was very active and enthusiastic during the first half, and who is very quiet and depressed now.

When Huskers score additional three points, my neighbor grabs his son's hand and rises. “I can't stand it anymore. I'm out of here,” he says as he makes his way through the crowd, leaving with us his frustration, rented chairs and lots of peanut shells on the floor. At the same time, our couple comes back.

“I was wondering where you were,” Bill says to them.

“Did we miss something?” the woman asks.

“Yeah, a touchdown,” Bill replies and points to the monitor showing 3-25 at 14:03.

From this point on, the fans are just watching their favorites lose. The crowd became almost quiet, with only Nebraska fans producing continuous approving sounds.

Somewhere in the middle of the third quarter the Wildcats advance far enough into the Huskers’ side of the field, but player 38 is not able to catch the ball passed to him. “Shoot him!” I hear from the crowd, “This guy is just a terrible blocker! “Pathetic!” says someone else, and these individual disappointments add to the overall frustration.

By the end of the quarter we lost about one-third of the crowd around, and even the couple in front of us left. The fourth quarter starts with some confusion among the Wildcats. I still cannot quite follow everything that is happening, but I have learned one rule: follow the ball, and there is a pile of bodies, the ball is most probably under it.

Two minutes into the quarter, a Husker grabs the ball and zooms toward the end of the field. No one stops him. When he realizes that he is close to the touchdown, he switches to a joyful galloping, like a show horse aware of its superb qualities. I can’t believe it! “Why did no one stop him?” I ask Bill.

“You haven’t given up your hope yet, have you?” he asks.

“Not yet, but with a ten-time lead I am very close to it,” I reply.

“After the additional scores it will be almost eleven times,” Bill adds. And sure enough, the monitor now shows 3-32 at 13:04.

K-State fans are devastated. Most of them have given up and leave now, forming continuous streams at the exits. I have a feeling that the players have given up too, and that now they need their fans’ support more than ever. Where is the warrior spirit displayed at the beginning? But the stadium is not quiet at all.

“I think that small patch of Nebraska fans is cheering K-State now,” Bill says to me, and I cannot stop thinking that they are probably the only ones doing this now.

One more touchdown by Huskers at 12:34 of the last quarter makes the Nebraska fan go mad again. She jumps with joy, screams, and claps her hands up in the air. Surrounded by the devastated and depressed Wildcat fans, she looks almost pathetic and ridiculous.

“This chick drives me n-n-nuts,” I hear a male voice from the left side, adding “I wanna take her plane home.” After these words I thank God that I am not that chick.

Additional two points by Nebraska have killed the remaining spirit of hope among the K-State supporters. The streams of leaving fans are turning into rivers now. Ironically, it is happening as the announcer says that today’s attendance of 43,914 is the third largest crowd in the K-State football history.

“Almost forty-four thousand people,” I say as I write down the number. “This is the entire population of Manhattan.”

And then, looking at the leaving fans, I say out loud, “Not anymore. This is so sad,” I say to Bill, “Why are they leaving? The team needs them now.”

“These are the people who come to the game only to see who wins or loses,” he replies. “As soon as they know the outcome, they lose interest and leave.”

“It’s only true fans like us who stay with their team to the end,” I say, quite amazed at myself, who came to the game for the first time in her life.

The rest of the time the Wildcats are desperately trying to have at least one touchdown. Huskers’ defense, however, is flawless and the Cats do not succeed. At the end of the game, while Nebraska players jump in front of their happy fans, Wildcats slowly leave the field with their helmets off and heads down.

I understand their frustration, especially remembering how excited everyone was after Arizona State had beaten Nebraska, thinking that the Huskers were going down. But Nebraska is still Nebraska, and the 3-39 victory over the 12-ranked team proves it. Honestly, when I went to the game I expected Nebraska to win. I just hoped that K-State would not lose so big.

As we leave the stadium, Bill asks me about my impressions. I tell him that although my excitement vanished, I did have a lot of fun during the game. But I certainly would not be able to go to the game every weekend, like some people do. I just think it would be a waste of time, to sit in the stadium for six hours without understanding what is going on because I’d never be able to get the rules down.

One big-time excitement is enough for the rest of my life. And now I can brag to everyone back home that I watched a true American football game.