Spectator

The hangover started to subside as we pulled into the parking lot. I was shoved in the backseat with three other reluctant passengers. The driver handed the lady sixty dollars for parking and we inched forward. We were one minuscule link in a massive chain, snaking its way towards the megalithic stadium home to the Kansas City Chiefs.

My girlfriend’s family was kind enough to invite me to a preseason game. My room, food, and tickets were paid for. All I had to do was get there. I’d never seen a professional football game in person, so I thought “why not?”

The van whipped into a space and the passengers piled out. Then there was a mad rush to set up a canopy, tables, chairs, coolers, pre-made sandwiches, sodas, chips, and beer.

A can was held in my direction bearing a wagon of crimson and cream. I knew what the foul thing contained and wanted to say “no.” But as a Sooner, drinking a Sooner-flavored beer is compulsory. I took the vile aluminum cylinder and cracked it open.

There’s a special kind of shame that lingers on the tongue when tasting beer before noon. And an awful sense of self-disgust when having one before ten. But the feeling I got was this particular morning was sickening. Revolting. It was just after nine. I’d barely rubbed the sand out of my eyes.

It did nothing but churn my stomach.

Not even eating could settle it down. My girlfriend and I took a walk. More out of necessity than anything because one of her younger cousins started blasting a rap song about football from the car’s speakers.

Not just a song about football. A song about this particular team.

Tech N9ne feels so passionate about the Kansas City Chiefs, that they wrote a song about them. The fans surrounding us didn’t seem to mind. But we felt out of place.

We were gifted a shirt each and I was given a straw cowboy hat, airbrushed with the Chief’s logo and colors. We walked among die-hard fans wearing red, white, and black football jerseys, shirts, and tank tops.

We were imposters.

I don’t know anything about the Kansas City Chiefs. Hell, I don’t even watch the NFL. But the crowd surrounding us had memorized knowledge no one else would ever care to seek. At any minute we could get grilled on our favorite player, best play last season, or the last time we went to the Super Bowl.

And neither her nor I could answer.

We came back to the table. The beer had settled and was crawling up my spine and into my brain. I sat quiet as music flowed in from every angle. All of it eighties rock and country. Scents of burgers and hot dogs wafted over from somewhere unseen. And a group of boys were playing flag football directly behind me. My girlfriend pulled out her cigarettes, but neither of us had the foresight to bring a lighter.

So we did another lap, her sister joining us. A decrepit old woman let us light our cigarettes and sent us off with “go Chiefs!” We echoed it unenthusiastically and moved on. A man stopped me and looked at me like I was his long lost friend that had been presumed dead.

“Dude!”

The drunken group behind him flashed silent, toothless smiles.

“You are a LEGEND!”

I genuinely thought it was the hat. I tried to gather my mind together in an effort to deflect whatever they were going to ask me.

“TWO GIRLS??”

I was unprepared already, but the man’s statement had me turned around completely.

In my long experience of dealing with beer-bellied drunks, I’ve found success in humoring them and slipping away quickly. There’s no way to reason with a drunk.

I would learn soon after this interaction that this was wrong. The correct response is to ignore them and keep moving. But my polite and non-confrontational sensibilities got the better of me.

I turned back towards the girls and they were already on their way. If I hang around here any longer, these violent brew-chuggers would bring me in to the game with them. And God knows what would happen to me then.

I entertained them while inching towards the fleeing girls. Once I had caught up with them, I received well-earned dirty looks.

We returned to our tailgate and in no time we were packing in and integrating with a drunken crowd of red and white. Past the gates, we were inside.

From afar the structure is hard to appreciate. You can see it as a whole, but the tiny crucial details can only be seen from this close. From within. And we hadn’t even entered the heart of this steel and concrete beast. No, we had hardly penetrated through the outside.

Up a spiral ramp onto the third floor. Around us was a mall of beer, soda, snacks, and bathrooms. The foremost item costing at least sixteen dollars per can. We stepped through a claustrophobic tunnel and into the dull light.

Arrowhead Stadium.

We could barely see the field from where we were at. And we still had a narrow, steep flight of stairs to climb before we were in our seats. There, the only good view we had was of the jumbo screen, currently advertising fast food to “Killing in the Name Of.”

This was enough for me and my girlfriend. We ran back down the concrete steps in hopes of finding cheap alcohol. The woman at the bar sidestepped every inquiry as to how much one mixed drink would cost. My girlfriend had to ask three times before the lady threw out some ridiculous number that neither of us would ever pay in even the classiest bars in Oklahoma.

We instead hit up a beer fridge and bought two each. One for the first half. One for the last.

When we returned to our seats, there was a fan of the opposing team sitting right beside me. He looked exactly like you’d expect your rival fan to look. A breathing stereotype.

He was a balding man with a toad face and a beer gut covered by a Browns jersey. Though, for the most part, he looked clean, there was a disgusting energy radiating from him that was impossible to ignore. I could have respected him had he stayed silent, but his demeanor only grew worse after kickoff.

Right now it was ten minutes until kickoff. A half-assed “drum ritual,” allegedly to honor the Indigenous tribes from the area and pay homage to the inspiration for the “Chiefs” name, preceded a rendition of the national anthem that could only be passable at a preseason game.

I stood up for it.

Maybe it was because of all the working-class souls lost in the first World War, whose stories were told in the museum we went to yesterday, or it was a fear that anyone left sitting would be beaten to a pulp for lack of nationalism.

The players entered the field and the first team kicked off. For the next two hours the stadium would turn into a zoo. Whooping and cheering any time the Chiefs did something favorable. Booing and protesting any time the referees threw a flag.

This is the American Political Ideal. Two teams facing off against each other. Their goals not all that different. But a deep, insurmountable hate compelling them to dominate their opponent in a show of strength. Their fans blindly cheering them on for arbitrary reasons.

I’m not without guilt.

I cheer for the Sooners because I was born in a Sooner family. I cheer for the Sooners because I’m from Norman. I cheer for the Sooners because I like to see them kick ass every Saturday. I cheer for the Sooners because my friends do it.

There’s plenty of reasons to cheer for a football team. Even when the Sooners lose, I’m still cheering for them at the next game. I’m a blind fan of OU, believing that they will play better, and that they will WIN.

But the same mentality cannot apply to American politics.

Never vote for someone because you’re bound to family obligations, state obligations, peer obligations, or because you think they’ll “win.”

The only winners in American politics are the people spending your tax dollars. Last week my money paid for Nancy Pelosi’s two hundred and sixty one dollar brunch.

Next week it’ll pay for Matt Gaetz’ fetish porn.

These people collect an exorbitant check for sitting and arguing amongst each other. But the fact remains that they still want the same goal.

Both left wing and right wing policies are designed to milk the last penny out of the American worker. The only difference is that one will do it and label it “progress.”

The people in D.C. don’t care about We the People. They serve themselves and no one else. Aside from their corporate donors, of course.

But we treat it like football. “Our team must win.” Bottomline.

Blindly supporting a football team is not that condemnable. I’d even say it’s admirable. It shows loyalty. Respect.

But to blindly support a political party as if it were a football team is absolutely heinous. There’s more at stake than some meaningless trophy or some made-up award.

This is the well-being of the American people we’re talking about. Your neighbors and friends. Life, liberty, etc…

The two are not the same.

So why blindly follow? Why prefer one party holds the reigns instead of the other? Both are equally abhorrently repulsive, but each in their own special way.

The struggle is that the two-party system is strangling America. It’s a choice to vote one way, or the other. And when neither of them are palatable, you’re forced to choose. The issue isn’t the “progressives” or the “conservatives.” It’s the fact that those are our only choices. Two parties to represent millions of American voters.