[Author's Note: Yeah, this is a Sport's post. A rhythm of Walkowski-esque parlance littered with curse words such as "throw", "catch", and "football". I realize Sports are a fleeting thing, as temporary as the American Civilization and our grandiose monuments. Nearly as short lived as our time on Earth. (If you don't know, everyone turns to dust someday) We're here. Earth is a bounty of boundless opportunities, yet we spend our time merely surviving (or thriving if you're lucky enough not to give a fuck). The endless potential of Earth has yet to strike us. Wouldn't you know it? Most of us are needing some distraction from the ultimately pointless, the mole on our mate's neck, the lack of money in our bank account.
I'm ashamed of this, but writing the last sentence prompted the involuntary reaction of opening the Bank of America home page. Commerce, commerce, nothing but commerce. Spend, spend, spend. ]
My distraction is Sports, the exalting heroics of professional athletics. In September, when the leaves crisp and fall to the ground, my primary distraction is Football. Specifically the NFL, more specifically the Detroit Lions.
Today at 7:16:05 am, I was awoken by a text message. The custom ring of me saying "Gobble gook gook boble gobble bobble" sang into my ear. I would've ignored the sound years ago, but now I am a bastion of the digital-open source-let's all be interconnected-share everything-and never be alone-even for a moment- era. I woke up and checked the text.
It came from an unknown source. Upon further i.e. awake research, the sender was revealed to be none other than David Scaramucci, the brother of one of my good friend John, and a friend himself in his own, extremely David, way.
Here is a picture of him on his father's horse.
I can not over state the importance of the Scaramucci Family. Over the years I've taken them for countless dinners, basketball tickets, and simply put- a humble place to hang my hat. They've done an incredible amount, but this morning's fleeting text message was among their best. "No more Millen." it read.
I'd been dreaming of Matt Millen's dismissal for three plus years. I didn't need to verify the news, opting to sit up in bed and scream "MATT MILLEN GOT FIRED!" Nick, peacefully slumbering a few feet away, immediately sat up, wide awake and eager to take on the day.
"NO WAY!" he screamed.
I sent that same text to David. At the exact juncture where a response was necessary, I received a text message from David reading "Yes Way!"
"YES WAY!" I screamed to Nick.
I fell back to bed, dreaming the Lions would somehow woo Bill Cowher and that I'd end up as his neighbor a la my experiences with Roy Williams.
******
I was born in 1986, I started cheering for the Lions in 1992. They weren't a good team but that was of no importance when your tail back was Barry Sanders, the exuberant sprite who darted past defenses with a barrage of moves that have never and will never be performed by a human being again. Every other year they would seemingly will themselves into contention, only to experience a heart breaking loss in the playoffs. December 30, 1995... Lomas Brown guaranteed a win versus Philadelphia. A few Rodney Peete interceptions later... Eagles 58 Lions 37. We were a great team in the NFL that year, but not in the playoffs.
The game happened just after Christmas. Mom and I trekked out to a local toy store to return the R/C car I had no interest in for an electric football game. America was fairly prosperous at this time so after exchanging my game, Mom did what she did best, tacking on an extra errand to a routine day out. We went to Gardner White Furniture, the Lions and Eagles were playing to determine who would go on to face the mighty Dallas Cowboys, a far superior team, but one that we frankly had their number.
I sat down for kick off, placing my plump kid body on a cushy couch. A salesman came up and switched the Gardner White television to a promo. I shot up from my seat, grabbing the salesman by the coattails, "Don't you know the Lions are in the Playoffs?" I told him.
He put the TV on, before I knew it, it was 31-7.
Before I knew it, Barry Sanders retired, taking the teetering timid runs that were his specialty out of his rotation. The 1999 team was good enough to garner a wild card loss.
The 2000 Lions squad was good, I just knew it. They were on the cusp of the playoffs, needing only a win against the Chicago Bears. The game didn't sell out so it was blacked out locally. I incessantly asked my parents if we could drive to Cleveland and watch the game at a local watering hole (this was especially insensitive considering my father was a recovering alcoholic). They always said no, giving the feeble excuse that "we had to go shopping on Sunday". On Sunday, My father, myself, and Boon our Thai exchange student who learned to love the Lions piled in the car. We went along I-75. The jig was up when we passed the malls.
"Where are we going?" I asked my Dad.
"We're going shopping." he told me with a smile.
I always knew my parents were softies.
My Dad drove past the malls, ignoring our pleas to "stop and shop" and into Pontiac, Michigan home of the Detroit Lions. We passed L'Ellis Restaurant and I made the same joke I always did: "Hey there's Luther Elisses restaurant!" My Dad and Boon laughed. Boon didn't know much English and my Dad was in too good of a mood. Who could blame him? The Lions were playing! They were a contender! A win would get them in the playoffs, all they had to do was beat the Bears. We pulled into one of the adjacent parking lots to the Pontiac Silverdome. Boon, my Thai brother, couldn't contain his excitement. "We gonna see Johnnie Morton!" Johnnie Morton was his favorite football player. In addition to being our primary receiving option, he was the only Detroit Lion of Asian descent.
It was a tightly contested the entire way through. The Lions seemingly sent the game into overtime on a Jason Hanson field goal with little under two minutes left. It transcended language and culture. Boon and I leapt into the air and hugged. We kept our embrace and kept jumping up and down. Even my Dad, the stoic saintly type, was invested. This might be the only time I've seen him yell. He caught my eye and hugged the hell out of me. Why not? It was time to let go. THE LIONS SENT THE GAME INTO OVERTIME! THEY WOULD SURELY WIN, MAKE THE PLAYOFFS, AND MAYBE EVEN WIN THEIR PLAYOFF GAME!
Unless the Bears managed to score. But that was no worry.
The Bears had an anemic offense and Cade McNown (one of the biggest NFL busts & douchebags in history) as their quarterback. Statistically, it made no sense, but Cade McNown marched the Bears into field goal territory. With two seconds left, Paul Edinger hit a 54-yard field goal, the longest of his career.
The Lions lost. They failed to make the playoffs. In NFL ideology they might as well have been 0-16. Fail to make the playoffs and you're mediocre...at best.
Acting swiftly and suddenly, the Lions decided it was time to blow things up. Owning a professional football team is no small endeavor. However, it's a glamorous job and offers easy access to any and everyone who might be of service to a Professional Football Team. There are more than Six Billion People in the world, among the throngs, the Detroit Lions hired Matt Millen as their seer of football operations.
It seemed like such a good decision. He was a proven winner as a player and didn't drool all over the microphone in the broadcast booth. Hindsight is of course twenty-twenty. There's nothing to do but tear Millen a new asshole these days, poor guy is nothing but sphincters at this point. The day he was hired? I was ecstatic, certain he'd lead my Lions to a Super Bowl! Sure he was commuting from Pennsylvania and wore ridiculous sweater vests, but even I'd heard of an idiot savant.
My enthusiasm was so high that my parents finally made the leap to ultimate fandome. We got season tickets to the Lions!
Things going in the 2001 Lion's Favor to a a Fifteen-Year-Old
Detmer threw seven interceptions in his first game, producing my first instance of claiming I could perform better than a pro athlete and the last instance in which my claims were true.
An 0-2 start was a big hole, but I'd seen the Lions go up and down before, I knew they'd reel off a miraculous string of wins to attain mediocrity at the very least. The first home game of the season was up after the bye. The St. Louis Rams, the greatest show on turf, were coming to town to play lightning-quick electricity infused football. With the game being the NFL's Monday Night Game, I knew the Lions would put on a show for me. I deserved it for going and staying out so late on a school night.
35-0 Rams. The crowd left before half-time. Dad and I watched the second half from the first row. Football sounds great up close in an empty stadium.
The Lions went on losing and losing. They became a staple of Jay Leno's monologue. The season's high point came after our first win when Johnnie Morton proclaimed "Jay Leno can kiss my ass" and received an invite onto the show.
They beat the Cowboys in the last game of the regular season. This was of no significance but I won twenty dollars from Brandon Hool. They finished 2-14. We didn't renew our season tickets. Who could blame us? The team was lousy and our seats were behind a pole.
New Year's Day 2002. Dad and I went to Grandma's Condo to eat cheese loaf watch the bowl games. A fierce, virile woman she never lapsed into anything close to senility. She was transfixed by the bowl games, in particular Joey Harrington, a fresh-faced Quarterback who zipped the deep ball and played piano with equal proficiency.
"I won't be here long, but I wish I could stay to watch that one in the Pros. He's gonna be a great one."
Grandma was such a wise old sage.
Relevance was on it's way-albeit only in the Architectural Sense. The Lions moved from Pontiac into Ford Field a castle of exposed brick and Hollywood lights nestled into the heart of Downtown Detroit in another feeble attempt at urban revival. The stage was set, all we needed was a Superstar to step into the light and soak up our adulation.
Brando was cast in the lead. With the 3rd pick of the 2002 draft the Lions selected Joey Harrington, a man who'd been on a seven-story Times Square billboard in college! He burst into Detroit as the next savior of our moribund franchise. His eloquence and optimism were enough to tempt even the most tortured of fans. In his first start, Joey threw four touchdown passes! The rest of the seasons gave him some bumps and bruises but his promise warranted an appearance on the cover of Sports Illustrated, a magazine I'd been getting since I was eight.
Then he got an irregular heart beat and missed the rest of the season. He immediately fell into local disdain. My friend Brandon worked at the local grocery store and stole Harrington's phone number of his discount club card application. Prank calling Joey became an immediate sensation, his digits spreading through his school faster than the school slut's.
It might have been the prank calls, maybe it was the faulty valve, but Joey was never the same player. Too bad it took another three years to realize this.
A 3-13 finish afforded the Lions the second pick in the Draft. We selected Charles Rogers, a lanky piece of athleticism from Michigan State University. Considered the most promising wide receiver prospect of the decade, it was assumed he would pair with Harrington to build a steeple built out of touchdown passes.
The Lions made another off season splash by signing two St. Louis Rams, Dre Bly, a cocky corner, and Az-Zahir Hakim, the NFL's fastest player. Within weeks of the signing, Hakim's jersey became the apparel of choice for Muslim kids at my school.
In Millen we trusted. He fired Marty Morningweg and hired Steve Mariucci, a Michigan Native and returning hero. After a rearing in Iron Mountain and a triumphant stretch at Michigan State University (where his friendship with Spartans Hoops Coach Tom Izzo is considered their Romeo & Juliet), he became not just a great coach but a mother fuckin' wunderking. He'd turned the San Francisco 49ers into a title contender and promised to do the same for the Lions. You'd have to be a fool not to trust Slick Haired Steve and his arsenal of Italian derring-do.
Rogers appeared to be everything advertised- for the first two games. In the fifth he broke his collarbone and missed the rest of the season. The next year, he broke the other collarbone on the season's first drive, knocking him out for the year. During his convalescence, he tested positive for street drugs and was suspended. He was never the same player, but unlike Harrington who was openly tortured about his failures, Rogers was probably too coked up to notice.
I was used to losing by now, but I knew it was only a matter of time before things turned around. This was confirmed on the last game of the season when the Lions faced the mighty Rams. Behind Joey the Lions surged to a 20-30 upset. The announcers echoed by opinion exactly: "This is a great team announcing itself."
I ran up stairs to one of our Goals to Life film shoots. "A GREAT TEAM IS ANNOUNCING ITSELF" I shouted to Steve and Dan. They shook their heads in confusion. Neither of them liked football or had any idea who the Lions were. This is striking to remember as Dan will now does whatever he can to turn the conversation to football.
2003 Detroit Lions Highlights
A. Christmas Eve found Mr. Dan Lawlor and myself rollicking around our suburban playground in our cherished 1993 Mercury Villager with bales of hales instead of seats. Our adventures brought us a five dollar pizza (a Detroit area staple) that we ate on the curb. We then went to WalMart to cause a general ruckus. A football called out from the toy aisle "play with me". Dan and I tossed it back and forth. Dan's errant throw pushed the football into the display. It rolled across the tile. I picked the ball up, held it in front of my genitals and proclaimed "I'm Joey Harrington."
"What?"
"He's too busy playing with his dick to play football."
I threw the ball to Dan. He held the ball in front of crotch.
"I'm Joey Harrington"
He tossed it back.
"I'm Joey Harrington"
And the greatest inside joke in American Friendship History was born. Over the next year countless items were held before countless crotches before the person exclaimed "I'm Joey Harrington" to a chorus of raucous laughter.
Nothing was exempt. People, musical instruments, and even automobiles were held before crotches to the tune of "I'm Joey Harrington."
If you listen closely on a quiet winter's eve, you can hear "I'm Joey Harrington" whistling past.
B. On Thanksgiving Day we went to my Sister and Frank's for breakfast. I accidentally put Salt instead of sugar in my coffee. Dad and I walked to Ford Field and watched the Thanksgiving game- a victory over the Packers. I could taste the salted coffee in my mouth the entire time.
C. We had a goofy white receiver named Bill Shroeder.
D. 5-11. It counted as progress.
I headed over to Nick's house to watch the first game of the 2004 season, spoiled by the recent Pistons championship, our approach to sports was fresh and idealized. Charles Rogers was knocked out in the first possession, but he was soon forgotten. The legend had arrived.
Roy Williams, the seventh overall pick in the 2004 draft played receiver well enough at Texas to earn the nickname "Legend". His first career catch was an impossible teetering one hander near the sideline. Nick and I looked at each other, our jaws touching the damn ground.
And also? The Lions won!
The next game? They won that too! Roy caught two touchdowns!
Undefeated to start the season, we headed into a match-up with the also undefeated Philadelphia Eagles, a team we looked upon as the measuring stick. Nick and I looked forward to the game all week, but our first professional video opportunity came up. We drove to Flint, picked up a lady from a strip-mall, and ended up getting death threats for our efforts. We didn't have time to watch the game, but we had a hot tape at home, burning to be watched.
It was a crushing defeat 30-13 but Roy stood out among the wreckage. On one play he caught a routine pass before turning it into the extraordinary. He broke seven tackles and spun around three times on the play. This was a man to watch!
Someone bought me a shirt reading "Got Roy?" with his sprawled football-snaring silhouette on the front.
That's when the real excitement hit. Roy lived in our neighborhood. He rode his Escalade and moped down the street just like a normal person. He bought two stone Lions and parked them in front of his house.
It was too much to take. Dan, Nick, and I bought a greeting card with a unicorn on it from a gas station. We wrote a thank you note and warned "Don't break your collar bone." Mustering all our courage we marched right up to Roy's door and knocked.
He opened the door, taking a moment to look us over before resuming his Madden Football game.
"Come on in guys."
"Hey Roy, I know this is kind of weird but we're huge Lions fans and just wanted to thank you. We got you this card."
"Thanks man."
"If you ever want to play pick-up football we play all the time and could use another receiver."
We stood awkwardly in his foyer. I had him sign my t-shirt and we left. It was glorious. The hero lived right down the block. Close enough to visit or at least rummage through his garbage. (Not that I'd ever do that. Who'd want to know that a certain athlete doesn't eat his pizza crust).
Roy became our favorite athlete that day. His Fathead sticks proudly on our living room wall. In the years since Roy has evolved into a comic figure famed for working as a pizza delivery boy, hosting a talk show with teammates, and not tipping the pizza crusts. (Why should he? They don't bother to cut off the crusts!)
Our brush with success was fleeting we finished 6-10, the Harrington myth was beginning to crumble, but that didn't matter with Roy.
The Lions possessed yet another high draft pick, choosing Big Mike Williams, an oversized wide out from the University of Southern California. Picking another receiver was an unprecedented move but it prompted John and I to run outside and emulate Mike Williams. It didn't matter that he hadn't played a game for us or that we were college freshman, it was a new era.
The 2005 season brought another batch of futility. We hired Mike Martz, the greatest offensive mind in football, to run our offense. It didn't help. It stood still and languished to a 5-11 finish.
The seat grew hot under Matt Millen. Local fans organized the "Millen Man March" at the Lion's last home game. Fans were urged to walk out of the game before half time and come to protest. Nick and I dressed as farmers and held signs outside the stadium with signs reading "Millen for Mayor" and "Millen is a Vampire." This was an unprecedented move for laissez-faire American fans. It was a sign that we'd take no more. It was also the day I missed an opportunity to feed a camel out of my hand.
Calls came for Matt Millen's head. He had the worst winning percentage of any NFL team during a five year span. This was of course rewarded with a contract extension.
The 2006 season was of no significance, other than Mike Williams eating himself out of the NFL.
2007 came. We picked another receiver deemed as "the greatest prospect of his generation" in Calvin Johnson, dubbed "Megatron" by the acerbic wit of Roy Williams. Rumors of trading Roy began to circulate. I vowed to cheer for another team if he was traded.
Our excitement blossoms each September, when a blemish free schedule shoots hope and optimism past logic and reason. Nick, Dan, and I headed up to Oakland for the season opener. We were the only Lions fans in the place. Walking through the parking lot before the game, things came to a standstill as thousands of Raider fans stopped to hurl epithets and bottles at us. It didn't help that I wore a Lions Santa Hat and a balloon.
The Lions did well in the beginning of the game prompting chants of "Fuck Detroit" we gleefully joined along with. The Lions earned a stirring come from behind victory but we had to leave early when a beer bottle narrowly missed us and struck a child, sparking a fist fight.
Walking back to the car a fan spotted my colors and told me "you're still fucking terrible." Raiders fans could be so stupid.
The Lions continued their hot start to 6-2 and an inside track to the playoffs. I was seeing them in the rosiest of lenses, it didn't even bother me that our Quarterback Jon Kitna was a religious zealot who converted half the team to Christianity. His preseason guarantee of 10 wins was looking damn good, the Defense was clicking, snagging turnovers at an alarming rate. The season reached a high water mark when Shaun Rogers, a 400 pound defensive tackle, returned a fumble 60 yards for a touchdown and celebrated by pretending to eat a turkey.
Maybe there was a God after all. Maybe he was merciful, bestowing sudden wisdom to Millen and arm strength to Kitna. It was a winning football team. The range of power polls uniformly ranked them as a top-ten team.
We lost seven of our last eight. Nick, Bryan, and I went to San Diego to see them take on the Chargers. They lost 51-14. All was not lost though, Pete a 60 something man rolled down seven rolls of seats in front of us, hooting&hollering&tossing his full beer at a woman in the process.
We went home for Christmas break and found ourselves at the Lions last home game. It wasn't worth it to cheer for our team, so Detroit Dream Team shirts were fashioned. We could use our imagination to put the best football players in the world on Detroit. My shirt was Manning. Nick's was Tomlinson. Chris' was Houshmandzadeh.
We won the game, finishing at 7-9, our best finish of the Matt Millen era.
2008
We were blown out three times to start the season. Nick turned catatonic after the last loss, hopelessly wishing he hated the Lions.
Then it happened. The tumor has gone off to dear sweet exile. The rest of the season might be cast as a mere exhibition season, but as a Lions fan I exalt in the experience. Quality football has long ago exited my imagination. Football is not a game played for victories, the strange story lines and the occasional great play were enough to get by.
Staying up late this past Sunday Night, I considered my relationship to the Detroit Lions. Like a girl you let hang around too long, they stopped seeming like a viable threat of anything. They won't knock me off my feet but if I keep a good smiling perspective, they'll be worth my effort. When I think of the Lions, I see a minor league team, a lovable gang of screw ups, head cases, and goof balls, headed by an in way over his head General. They're the perfect B movie plot, the Jamaican Bobsled team of the NFL with Matt Millen as our John Candy.
I came to terms with this, looking forward to a lifetime reminiscing about Paper Lion and Barry Sanders. I was never going to get invested again...
Then the unthinkable happened. Matt Millen was fired.
It won't change the immediate future, but I know the franchise cares, harboring at least some delusions of grandiose nature. They want to win? The Ford Family actually gives a fuck? Well, I'll be damned.
Three days after acceptance, I was back at square one. I'm on board with the Lions, my favorite professional football team. I'm free to see the brighter side of football and not just the foibles and follies wrought by ineptitude.
I put my paper bag away wondering if hope is indeed a good thing.
My enthusiasm was so high that my parents finally made the leap to ultimate fandome. We got season tickets to the Lions!
Things going in the 2001 Lion's Favor to a a Fifteen-Year-Old
- They were 9-7 last year. They almost made the playoffs and all key starters returned.
- We hired Marty Morninweg to be our head coach. He came from the then fabled stable of Green Bay coaches, the NFL's fountain of brilliance. Any coach who came from Green Bay was automatically a winner. Better still, he drove a motorcycle. There was a famous incident where he walked out of practice and drove off on his Harley. I thought this was a great omen, ignoring the fact that leaders should probably attend their own meetings.
- We drafted a Tackle from Michigan!
- We installed the holy West Coast Offense and had the receivers to make it work.
Detmer threw seven interceptions in his first game, producing my first instance of claiming I could perform better than a pro athlete and the last instance in which my claims were true.
An 0-2 start was a big hole, but I'd seen the Lions go up and down before, I knew they'd reel off a miraculous string of wins to attain mediocrity at the very least. The first home game of the season was up after the bye. The St. Louis Rams, the greatest show on turf, were coming to town to play lightning-quick electricity infused football. With the game being the NFL's Monday Night Game, I knew the Lions would put on a show for me. I deserved it for going and staying out so late on a school night.
35-0 Rams. The crowd left before half-time. Dad and I watched the second half from the first row. Football sounds great up close in an empty stadium.
The Lions went on losing and losing. They became a staple of Jay Leno's monologue. The season's high point came after our first win when Johnnie Morton proclaimed "Jay Leno can kiss my ass" and received an invite onto the show.
They beat the Cowboys in the last game of the regular season. This was of no significance but I won twenty dollars from Brandon Hool. They finished 2-14. We didn't renew our season tickets. Who could blame us? The team was lousy and our seats were behind a pole.
New Year's Day 2002. Dad and I went to Grandma's Condo to eat cheese loaf watch the bowl games. A fierce, virile woman she never lapsed into anything close to senility. She was transfixed by the bowl games, in particular Joey Harrington, a fresh-faced Quarterback who zipped the deep ball and played piano with equal proficiency.
"I won't be here long, but I wish I could stay to watch that one in the Pros. He's gonna be a great one."
Grandma was such a wise old sage.
Relevance was on it's way-albeit only in the Architectural Sense. The Lions moved from Pontiac into Ford Field a castle of exposed brick and Hollywood lights nestled into the heart of Downtown Detroit in another feeble attempt at urban revival. The stage was set, all we needed was a Superstar to step into the light and soak up our adulation.
Brando was cast in the lead. With the 3rd pick of the 2002 draft the Lions selected Joey Harrington, a man who'd been on a seven-story Times Square billboard in college! He burst into Detroit as the next savior of our moribund franchise. His eloquence and optimism were enough to tempt even the most tortured of fans. In his first start, Joey threw four touchdown passes! The rest of the seasons gave him some bumps and bruises but his promise warranted an appearance on the cover of Sports Illustrated, a magazine I'd been getting since I was eight.
Then he got an irregular heart beat and missed the rest of the season. He immediately fell into local disdain. My friend Brandon worked at the local grocery store and stole Harrington's phone number of his discount club card application. Prank calling Joey became an immediate sensation, his digits spreading through his school faster than the school slut's.
It might have been the prank calls, maybe it was the faulty valve, but Joey was never the same player. Too bad it took another three years to realize this.
A 3-13 finish afforded the Lions the second pick in the Draft. We selected Charles Rogers, a lanky piece of athleticism from Michigan State University. Considered the most promising wide receiver prospect of the decade, it was assumed he would pair with Harrington to build a steeple built out of touchdown passes.
The Lions made another off season splash by signing two St. Louis Rams, Dre Bly, a cocky corner, and Az-Zahir Hakim, the NFL's fastest player. Within weeks of the signing, Hakim's jersey became the apparel of choice for Muslim kids at my school.
In Millen we trusted. He fired Marty Morningweg and hired Steve Mariucci, a Michigan Native and returning hero. After a rearing in Iron Mountain and a triumphant stretch at Michigan State University (where his friendship with Spartans Hoops Coach Tom Izzo is considered their Romeo & Juliet), he became not just a great coach but a mother fuckin' wunderking. He'd turned the San Francisco 49ers into a title contender and promised to do the same for the Lions. You'd have to be a fool not to trust Slick Haired Steve and his arsenal of Italian derring-do.
Rogers appeared to be everything advertised- for the first two games. In the fifth he broke his collarbone and missed the rest of the season. The next year, he broke the other collarbone on the season's first drive, knocking him out for the year. During his convalescence, he tested positive for street drugs and was suspended. He was never the same player, but unlike Harrington who was openly tortured about his failures, Rogers was probably too coked up to notice.
I was used to losing by now, but I knew it was only a matter of time before things turned around. This was confirmed on the last game of the season when the Lions faced the mighty Rams. Behind Joey the Lions surged to a 20-30 upset. The announcers echoed by opinion exactly: "This is a great team announcing itself."
I ran up stairs to one of our Goals to Life film shoots. "A GREAT TEAM IS ANNOUNCING ITSELF" I shouted to Steve and Dan. They shook their heads in confusion. Neither of them liked football or had any idea who the Lions were. This is striking to remember as Dan will now does whatever he can to turn the conversation to football.
2003 Detroit Lions Highlights
A. Christmas Eve found Mr. Dan Lawlor and myself rollicking around our suburban playground in our cherished 1993 Mercury Villager with bales of hales instead of seats. Our adventures brought us a five dollar pizza (a Detroit area staple) that we ate on the curb. We then went to WalMart to cause a general ruckus. A football called out from the toy aisle "play with me". Dan and I tossed it back and forth. Dan's errant throw pushed the football into the display. It rolled across the tile. I picked the ball up, held it in front of my genitals and proclaimed "I'm Joey Harrington."
"What?"
"He's too busy playing with his dick to play football."
I threw the ball to Dan. He held the ball in front of crotch.
"I'm Joey Harrington"
He tossed it back.
"I'm Joey Harrington"
And the greatest inside joke in American Friendship History was born. Over the next year countless items were held before countless crotches before the person exclaimed "I'm Joey Harrington" to a chorus of raucous laughter.
Nothing was exempt. People, musical instruments, and even automobiles were held before crotches to the tune of "I'm Joey Harrington."
If you listen closely on a quiet winter's eve, you can hear "I'm Joey Harrington" whistling past.
B. On Thanksgiving Day we went to my Sister and Frank's for breakfast. I accidentally put Salt instead of sugar in my coffee. Dad and I walked to Ford Field and watched the Thanksgiving game- a victory over the Packers. I could taste the salted coffee in my mouth the entire time.
C. We had a goofy white receiver named Bill Shroeder.
D. 5-11. It counted as progress.
I headed over to Nick's house to watch the first game of the 2004 season, spoiled by the recent Pistons championship, our approach to sports was fresh and idealized. Charles Rogers was knocked out in the first possession, but he was soon forgotten. The legend had arrived.
Roy Williams, the seventh overall pick in the 2004 draft played receiver well enough at Texas to earn the nickname "Legend". His first career catch was an impossible teetering one hander near the sideline. Nick and I looked at each other, our jaws touching the damn ground.
And also? The Lions won!
The next game? They won that too! Roy caught two touchdowns!
Undefeated to start the season, we headed into a match-up with the also undefeated Philadelphia Eagles, a team we looked upon as the measuring stick. Nick and I looked forward to the game all week, but our first professional video opportunity came up. We drove to Flint, picked up a lady from a strip-mall, and ended up getting death threats for our efforts. We didn't have time to watch the game, but we had a hot tape at home, burning to be watched.
It was a crushing defeat 30-13 but Roy stood out among the wreckage. On one play he caught a routine pass before turning it into the extraordinary. He broke seven tackles and spun around three times on the play. This was a man to watch!
Someone bought me a shirt reading "Got Roy?" with his sprawled football-snaring silhouette on the front.
That's when the real excitement hit. Roy lived in our neighborhood. He rode his Escalade and moped down the street just like a normal person. He bought two stone Lions and parked them in front of his house.
It was too much to take. Dan, Nick, and I bought a greeting card with a unicorn on it from a gas station. We wrote a thank you note and warned "Don't break your collar bone." Mustering all our courage we marched right up to Roy's door and knocked.
He opened the door, taking a moment to look us over before resuming his Madden Football game.
"Come on in guys."
"Hey Roy, I know this is kind of weird but we're huge Lions fans and just wanted to thank you. We got you this card."
"Thanks man."
"If you ever want to play pick-up football we play all the time and could use another receiver."
We stood awkwardly in his foyer. I had him sign my t-shirt and we left. It was glorious. The hero lived right down the block. Close enough to visit or at least rummage through his garbage. (Not that I'd ever do that. Who'd want to know that a certain athlete doesn't eat his pizza crust).
Roy became our favorite athlete that day. His Fathead sticks proudly on our living room wall. In the years since Roy has evolved into a comic figure famed for working as a pizza delivery boy, hosting a talk show with teammates, and not tipping the pizza crusts. (Why should he? They don't bother to cut off the crusts!)
Our brush with success was fleeting we finished 6-10, the Harrington myth was beginning to crumble, but that didn't matter with Roy.
The Lions possessed yet another high draft pick, choosing Big Mike Williams, an oversized wide out from the University of Southern California. Picking another receiver was an unprecedented move but it prompted John and I to run outside and emulate Mike Williams. It didn't matter that he hadn't played a game for us or that we were college freshman, it was a new era.
The 2005 season brought another batch of futility. We hired Mike Martz, the greatest offensive mind in football, to run our offense. It didn't help. It stood still and languished to a 5-11 finish.
The seat grew hot under Matt Millen. Local fans organized the "Millen Man March" at the Lion's last home game. Fans were urged to walk out of the game before half time and come to protest. Nick and I dressed as farmers and held signs outside the stadium with signs reading "Millen for Mayor" and "Millen is a Vampire." This was an unprecedented move for laissez-faire American fans. It was a sign that we'd take no more. It was also the day I missed an opportunity to feed a camel out of my hand.
Calls came for Matt Millen's head. He had the worst winning percentage of any NFL team during a five year span. This was of course rewarded with a contract extension.
The 2006 season was of no significance, other than Mike Williams eating himself out of the NFL.
2007 came. We picked another receiver deemed as "the greatest prospect of his generation" in Calvin Johnson, dubbed "Megatron" by the acerbic wit of Roy Williams. Rumors of trading Roy began to circulate. I vowed to cheer for another team if he was traded.
Our excitement blossoms each September, when a blemish free schedule shoots hope and optimism past logic and reason. Nick, Dan, and I headed up to Oakland for the season opener. We were the only Lions fans in the place. Walking through the parking lot before the game, things came to a standstill as thousands of Raider fans stopped to hurl epithets and bottles at us. It didn't help that I wore a Lions Santa Hat and a balloon.
The Lions did well in the beginning of the game prompting chants of "Fuck Detroit" we gleefully joined along with. The Lions earned a stirring come from behind victory but we had to leave early when a beer bottle narrowly missed us and struck a child, sparking a fist fight.
Walking back to the car a fan spotted my colors and told me "you're still fucking terrible." Raiders fans could be so stupid.
The Lions continued their hot start to 6-2 and an inside track to the playoffs. I was seeing them in the rosiest of lenses, it didn't even bother me that our Quarterback Jon Kitna was a religious zealot who converted half the team to Christianity. His preseason guarantee of 10 wins was looking damn good, the Defense was clicking, snagging turnovers at an alarming rate. The season reached a high water mark when Shaun Rogers, a 400 pound defensive tackle, returned a fumble 60 yards for a touchdown and celebrated by pretending to eat a turkey.
Maybe there was a God after all. Maybe he was merciful, bestowing sudden wisdom to Millen and arm strength to Kitna. It was a winning football team. The range of power polls uniformly ranked them as a top-ten team.
We lost seven of our last eight. Nick, Bryan, and I went to San Diego to see them take on the Chargers. They lost 51-14. All was not lost though, Pete a 60 something man rolled down seven rolls of seats in front of us, hooting&hollering&tossing his full beer at a woman in the process.
We went home for Christmas break and found ourselves at the Lions last home game. It wasn't worth it to cheer for our team, so Detroit Dream Team shirts were fashioned. We could use our imagination to put the best football players in the world on Detroit. My shirt was Manning. Nick's was Tomlinson. Chris' was Houshmandzadeh.
We won the game, finishing at 7-9, our best finish of the Matt Millen era.
2008
We were blown out three times to start the season. Nick turned catatonic after the last loss, hopelessly wishing he hated the Lions.
Then it happened. The tumor has gone off to dear sweet exile. The rest of the season might be cast as a mere exhibition season, but as a Lions fan I exalt in the experience. Quality football has long ago exited my imagination. Football is not a game played for victories, the strange story lines and the occasional great play were enough to get by.
Staying up late this past Sunday Night, I considered my relationship to the Detroit Lions. Like a girl you let hang around too long, they stopped seeming like a viable threat of anything. They won't knock me off my feet but if I keep a good smiling perspective, they'll be worth my effort. When I think of the Lions, I see a minor league team, a lovable gang of screw ups, head cases, and goof balls, headed by an in way over his head General. They're the perfect B movie plot, the Jamaican Bobsled team of the NFL with Matt Millen as our John Candy.
I came to terms with this, looking forward to a lifetime reminiscing about Paper Lion and Barry Sanders. I was never going to get invested again...
Then the unthinkable happened. Matt Millen was fired.
It won't change the immediate future, but I know the franchise cares, harboring at least some delusions of grandiose nature. They want to win? The Ford Family actually gives a fuck? Well, I'll be damned.
Three days after acceptance, I was back at square one. I'm on board with the Lions, my favorite professional football team. I'm free to see the brighter side of football and not just the foibles and follies wrought by ineptitude.
I put my paper bag away wondering if hope is indeed a good thing.
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