Eventually a whistle cuts through the late winter air and the teacher tells you to stop fighting.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re not fighting miss, we\u2019re playing American Football.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re playing what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAmerican Football!\u201d<\/p>\n
Not boring names like Tranmere Rovers or Bolton Wanderers\u2026but Los Angeles Raiders, Dallas Cowboys, Chicago Bears, New York Giants and Green Bay Packers. Washington Redskins (pre political correctness era<\/em>.) \u00a0And the team of the time, the dynasty of the period, the divine linkage of Quarterback Joe Montana and Wide Receiver Jerry Rice of the San Francisco 49ers. We watched these games on a Sunday evening, just after proper football <\/em>and just before The Wonder Years. Sat in front of the telly with a bag of Monster Munch while our moaning fathers spoiled all the fun:<\/p>\n \u201cWhy do they call it football when they play it with their hands?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s boring.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAll that stopping and starting.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s on for too long.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat a load of wimps, you don\u2019t see rugby players wearing helmets, and all that padding!\u201d<\/p>\n We didn\u2019t care. We watched on anyway, in wide-eyed amazement. Those kits, that pitch. Those stadiums that made Old Trafford look like Meadow Lane. The refs wearing caps and Notts County tops. The energy and the colours. The colours that seemed ten times bolder than our own football, like someone had been tampering with the contrast at the back of the telly, rainbow bright, solid, sharp. The gold and black of Pittsburgh Steelers clashing against the turquoise and white of the Miami Dolphins. Tiger-striped helmets of the Cincinnati Bengals locking horns with the Rams of L.A, or St Louis, or wherever in the vast land they decided to play from that year. So what if we didn\u2019t have a clue what was going off, all this stopping and starting, first down, second down, numbers, quarters, 6 points for a touchdown and 3 if you kick it through the posts.<\/p>\n Who cares if our dads were right, we loved it all the same.<\/p>\n Twenty-five years later and I still didn\u2019t have a clue what was going on. Yet the energy and the enigma still transfixed me. So I took my glory-supporting tendencies and switched from the 49ers of San Francisco to the Patriots of New England (who were really rubbish back in that February of 1990<\/em>.) Gone was Joe Montana and here was Tom Brady. There were new teams too, Jacksonville Jaguars, Carolina Panthers, Tennessee Titans and Baltimore Ravens. Houston was still Houston only they the Texans now, and not the outdated Oilers. Another love of mine the Raiders had left L.A and were back in Oakland where they belong, only not for long, as Las Vegas was on the horizon. The geographical disloyalty is bewildering to us English, like taking West Ham and suddenly plopping them in Newcastle, with a quick whistle-stop season in Birmingham on the way.<\/p>\n Ha. Just wild. Just radical. Only in America.<\/p>\n So I learned the rules and went to America. Found myself in Denver one October Sunday. Broncos playing at home to the Giants. Abused my overdraft and sold my soul and bought a golden ticket, finding myself way up in the gods of the famous Mile-High Stadium. Sun switched to moon, darkening the edges of the great state of Colorado. I was swarmed by the orange of Denver and thought that I should keep my Patriots allegiance to myself. Only there was no real need, cos rivalry isn\u2019t rivalry over there. Rivals sit together. Celebrate together, commiserate together. Not the do-or-die tribal inflexibility over here (although this does have its masochistic place, oh, ha.<\/em>) People wear jerseys of teams that aren\u2019t even playing. Sweets (candy<\/em>) is thrown out like rain. Home fans cheer and fireworks burst even though their team had lost.<\/p>\n It\u2019s a day-out; a night-out. An event. That\u2019s entertainment. The spectacle was blinding. A mid-season, inconsequential game yet it had more razzmatazz than the F.A Cup Final twenty times over.<\/p>\n
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