There’s a very specific sound that hurls me back to the floor of my parents’ living room whenever I hear it. Sunday, January 6, 1991; the Houston Oilers were playing the Cincinnati Bengals in the AFC Wild Card game and I was sitting on the floor right in front of the television, which was muted so that we could listen to the announcers on the radio. Former Houston Oilers head coach, Bum Phillips was the color analyst; and after Cincinnati scored two more touchdowns to start the second half, his voice took a turn for the grey. He also ended every sentence with a distinct jangle of the ice in his whiskey tumbler signifying to households all over Houston, “The game is over. We lost. Begin drinking in that particular kind of way that upsets your mother.”
Almost two decades later, I find myself standing in the very crowded parking lot of Reliant Stadium, next in line for the Porta Potty, hypnotized by the sight and sound of a spirited tailgater jangling the ice in her whiskey tumbler… until some guy walked over to her and poured the contents of the tumbler into a plastic cup. Probably for the best.
Ticketless and considerably drunk, I strolled a Reliant Stadium parking lot paved with the public merriment of tailgating: Giant plasma TV’s lining every row of the parking lot like downtown Tokyo, satellite dishes that could seat a dozen people for dinner, ambitious culinary devices requiring Plutonium 235 as fuel, loud music of all indiscernible genres, hooting & hollering coming from the mouths of fans dressed as neo-Romans with their Mario Williams jerseys, “Fuck Dallas” chants and a putrid yet prideful stench blended of sweat, alcoholism, smoke, exhaust fumes and rotting dead animal carcass… A party so grand that it caught the eye of Scott Bowen of ForbesTraveler.com who lists Houston’s Reliant Stadium in the Top 5 Stadiums for tailgating.
The scene could not have been more antithetical to my parents’ humble living room, which is precisely why I stumbled slowly back to the car. But in the process of taking it all in, John Facenda, the historic voice of the early NFL Films, took over the reins of my inner monologue.
“At the start of every NFL season, Forbes magazine publishes a special report on the business of professional football including statistical data and analysis of each individual franchise, as well as ranking the NFL teams by team value. In its eight pathetic seasons of existence, the Texans franchise has managed to rank in the Top Five with strange consistency despite never boasting a single winning season. Currently, Houston is ranked fifth between the two franchises in New York City. In eight years, the Houston Texans have never failed to sellout a game; additionally, the $300 million naming rights to the stadium is the richest in the NFL. Bob McNair bought the team in 1999 for $700 million. The franchise is now worth about $1.2 billion. Again… Not. A. Single. Winning. Season.
The 2010 NFL season, that which is currently underway, is the “Final League Year” of the current Collective Bargaining Agreement between the NFL Owners and the NFL Players Association (an organization no different than your Local 42). Sports Analysts and Talk Show hosts will be dramatizing this “situation” to an overbearing degree come Superbowl time. For now, what we have here is your garden variety Board of Directors vs. the Union dispute; the chips on the table (retirement funds, player benefits, player annuity, severance pay, performance-based pay, etc.) are basically the same.
In common consumer/tailgater terms, this could be the last NFL season for a while if the two parties do not come to an agreement after this season. The Man-drama is embarrassing.
In terms of non-players who rely on the professional football industry for employment and income, this might be Fourth and Long. And I’m not just talking about the agents, managers and coaches, but also all of the people that serve in the production of just one NFL Sunday. Camera crews, concession companies, the United Way, etc… many of the people (let’s just assume “thousands”) that work the NFL games will be out of a job if there’s no new Collective Bargaining Agreement achieved this summer. That kind of drama sucks prison cock.”
“What the FUCK, John Facenda!?!”, I screamed suddenly becoming aware of myself in front of a lovely Hispanic family grilling hot dogs and quail wrapped in bacon on a modest Weber. I apologized for my outburst immediately, only to have them trump me by asking if I needed a refill. At that point I looked at my own plastic cup and jangled the ice. It made a very different sound lacking in the luxury of glass.
And that’s when I finally understood the mania behind tailgating. It has hardly anything to do with the actual football game, which is nothing more than simulated battle. Tailgating has everything to do with partying and getting drunk with strangers. Tailgating doesn’t have to submit to the depressing jangle of Bum Phillips’ whiskey tumbler. It can be the hollow, carefree sound of ice in a Solo cup needing a refill.
So with my new friends, I toasted, “To Bob McNair’s parking lot… Cheers.”
