A Tale of Two Chickens: The Sordid past of Chicken and Football

I was not always a football fan. As a matter of fact, there was a time not so long ago in my past where I deemed football to be a brutish, overrated, and tedious sport. I know, it's hard to believe that tactical squads of muscular and uniformed men running into each other at full speed wouldn't appeal to everyone. But it's true. I have watched countless Super Bowl's with such disinterest that it's safe to assume I was more intrigued with the various flavors of salsa circling the nacho bowl. That and avoiding obnoxious family and friends of family.

Please bear with me during this brief moment of self-indulgence. My tale comes with the intent of any good story; a point. A valuable point for noting the delicious relationship of the chicken... and football.

I had no intention of getting involved. Like prescription painkillers, Robert Redford movies, and crack, the first hit reeled me in and refused to let go. I was watching the 2003 NFC Championship game with some friends in Philly. Eagles vs. Panthers. It was an ugly game for sure. McNabb was injured, picked off, sacked, and generally abused. I think it's a philly thing; watching your team get so far so often (this was the Eagles third straight NFC Championship loss) and lose just as often, and ever watching with a bitter taste in your mouth. I don't recall knowing any of the intricacies of the game, but one thing I do know is that chicken wings, boneless buffalo to be sure, were available and abundant. There were also several cases of Yuengling, a cheap lager brewed deep in the bosom of Pennsylvania farm land.

The wings were boned, standard fare, and hot. Not too hot. One might even say mild. But the dew that formed upon my brow only thickened with the passing of more wings and more football. To sooth the frustration of the heat and ever worsening game, I cooled myself with a refreshing sip of lager.

On the river of football, as the hot chicken flows, so doth the cooling beer.

I wasn't what you'd call disappointed after spending three-plus hours watching the Eagles embarrass themselves on national TV. I didn't care at all. But come next season, I recall getting together with some like minded folks and having some chicken, beer, and football. The more I watched, the more I wanted to know. Before long, I knew my team was the Eagles and I knew that I would watch football as long as they put it on TV.

What I didn't know is that phrases like fantasy value, downhill runner, or, finding the hole, would become part of my daily lexicon.

Fast forward one year. I'm in a dorm room in Amherst, Massachusetts. The Eagles have made it to football's gates of Saint Peter. They were knocking on the door of the long awaited Super Bowl title. The only thing standing in their way was Tom Bundchen Brady, Bill Belichick, and current Eagle Assante Samuel. I had no chicken, a 10-page paper to write, and a room full of Patriots fans. Needless to say the loss was compounded by throbbing masses of drunk Pats fans. I was sick.

Four years later, I'm still in Massachusetts and I'm still an Eagles fan. My girlfriend, no fan of televised sporting (save the Nomar era of the Red Sox) finds herself living with a man who gushes at the prospect of a new season and the elusive Super Bowl. She used to fret every time football season would roll around. She would say, "Christ! I lose my boyfriend every Sunday to a pack of fucking heathens on TV."

Some people go to church on Sunday. I watch football.

A few times, for lack of anything better to do and in an effort to spend time with her delusional boyfriend, she would come down to Rafters, (my local sports bar, a place reserved mostly for non-Boston fans who couldn't get their teams of TV) assuming that sharing a meal with me couldn't be all that bad. The first time she brought a paper to read while we shared some wings and a pitcher. She likes chicken and beer, so no harm, no foul. The second time she started to ask questions about certain players, basic rules, and such. By the fifth time she was well learned, drunk, saturated with chicken, and standing on her chair screaming "GET THAT MOTHERFUCKER!" And he did. Brian Dawkins had shattered the ball carrier, forced a fumble, and turned it into points.

This is not an exaggeration. She admits that it was the chicken and beer that brought her in. It was the football the made her stand on the chair and scream obscenities at people who would never hear her.

For my girlfriends sake I will point out that this was an isolated incident and she has behaved herself since... for the most part. With the Eagles kicking off their season tomorrow, against the Panthers at 1:00, you can expect that I will be down at Rafters at 12:30 to secure my booth.

Check back on Tuesday for thoughts on the week.

P.S. Trying to write about football, chicken, and beer while listening to Chopin is like trying to ride a bike up hill with a flat tire, a broken ankle, and a dead moose strapped to your back.