Kimberly Emerson

In the beginning, little children learned to run…and it was good.
As they grew older, they discovered that they could move their legs and their arms at the same time…and it was good.
One child threw something at someone else while they were running, only not very hard, and the other kid caught it, and they called it a game, and other people came out to watch…and it was good.

…And then someone didn’t like the way the game went, and sent one of the kids a death threat, and it was not good.

It was not good at all.  It was bad.

This past Sunday, I was one of the watching people.  My team, the San Francisco 49ers, were playing another team whose name I forget (oh, okay, the New York Giants).  The teams played their hearts out, ended up going into overtime, and finally the Giants won by three points. No, my team didn’t win.  Yes, I would’ve liked it if they had.  But somehow, I managed to go home, play with my cat, eat some cookie dough, and generally get on with my life.

A few of my fellow fans had a different reaction. A couple of folks, people who probably watched the game in front of a TV wearing a 49ers jersey, just like I did, sent messages to one of the players, Kyle Williams, afterwards, telling him he deserved to die for the errors he made on the field.  One of them suggested a football exploding in his car.  (Death threats are so much better when they are styled for the occasion.)  Another one said not only did he deserve to die, but his wife and kids, too.  (He’s single and he doesn’t have kids.  I guess if you have lives to threaten, you don’t have time to google the people first to get your facts straight.)

Kyle Williams, after Sunday's game. Kind of looks like he was already bummed out, without anyone tweeting him that he should be.

I am left with one question:  What’s the deal?

Either I am not a real fan, or my cat possesses magical soothing qualities, because while I was disappointed, I somehow managed to sidetrack my emotions from progressing all the way to murderous rage.  Not only against him, but his (mythical) wife and kids?  Really?  How in the world did a bunch of guys throwing around a  piece of cow leather (the official ones are not made of pig, according to the Wilson website) become this important to anyone?

The answer probably lies in the feelings that create the attachments to these teams.  With most of us, there’s a whole lot of history wrapped up in our relationship with that jersey, and most of it has more to do with our own past than with whichever players happen to be wearing the shirts at the moment.  I learned to love the 49ers because my older brother loved them and watched almost every game they played.  (The fact that they won a lot at the time probably didn’t hurt.  Thirteen years.  Five Super Bowls.  It became a thing.)  I learned to love the San Francisco Giants because my grandmother loved them.  (She still does.  She loves the 49ers too.  Grandma is kind of a sports junkie.)  When I see the team insignias, I think of my brother screaming at the TV in the family room, and Grandma cheering that time we went to Candlestick Park and watched the Giants game that went into extra innings.  I love my family, so it was easy to love the things that they loved.  As I watched the games, I learned the rules, and I enjoyed being part of the zeitgeist as we rooted for the home team.

…And now I’ve  proven I can’t be a real sports fan, because I used the word “zeitgeist.”  Oh, well.

On top of our associated memories, there is our hero-worship of the people playing.  They can make their bodies respond to stimuli in ways that the rest of us cannot.  Personally, when I see a small projectile coming my way, I duck.  It would never occur to me to run toward the missile yelling “MINE!  I GOT IT!” and extend my hands into its path of travel.  Football?  Please.  I often have trouble walking without tripping.  But when I watch people play, people who know what they’re doing and how to do it, I imagine for a moment what it must be like to be them…to be good at this…and it’s a great feeling.  When they are on the team that we’ve already claimed for our own, and they make that great catch, it’s like they’ve made it for all of us.

Build a base of years worth of memories, stack on some wish fulfillment, coat with your disappointment in your own life, and place your team’s players at the top.  That’s a high, slippery pedestal from which they can fall.

Or maybe I should say, they will fall.  Like it or not, those folks on the screen are only human.  From time to time, they will have a bad day,and they will let us down.  The sun will get in their eyes, or the wind will go against them, or the rain will make the ball slip out of their hands.  (Wet things are slippery.  You can try to improve the equipment, but you can’t change the laws of physics.)

Maybe none of those things had anything to do with Kyle Williams’ screw-ups on Sunday.  Maybe he didn’t pray enough.  (Unlikely.  I think Jesus is happy everyone is out getting some exercise, but that’s about it.)  Maybe he was nervous.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that a human life is worth more than a football game.  Even a playoff game.  Even when the 49ers are playing.  The minute we lose sight of that, we’ve taken the whole enterprise too far.

I can suggest a great remedy.  If you really believe that someone deserves the death penalty for messing up a play in a football game that you watched in your living room while drinking soda and eating  chips and salsa, get out of your recliner, go outside and run around.  Try playing catch with a neighbor.  After hours (Sunday’s game took four, no lie) of staring at a screen, you could stand to get up and move around.  You’ll stir up some endorphines, you’ll work off some of the fried food you ate, and you’ll find out in a hurry that it’s a whole lot harder than it looks on TV – even when you’re catching passes thrown by the twelve-year-old who lives next door.

Alternatively, we could start passing out anti-depressant medication at the snack table.  (“I have Heineken, Bud Lite, chicken wings, nachos, and Prozac.  There’s Zoloft in the kitchen, if you prefer.”)

Then again, maybe the whole problem is Twitter.  If those folks sitting on their butts actually had to get up and go to the post office for a stamp so that they could mail their death threat in an actual letter, they’d probably lose interest before they completed the task.

How NFL players start - and how they still look, to their mothers.

Kimberly couldn’t get that upset about Sunday’s loss in the playoffs.  She was too busy celebrating the fact that for the first time in nine years, her team was actually in the playoffs.

THIS JUST IN:

I never add a post-script to posts once they’ve been posted, but you have to see this article from Yahoo Sports.  A 7-year-old was crestfallen about the 49ers’ loss, but was encouraged by his dad to think about the feelings of other people.  Major heartfelt teaching moment for all of us grown-ups.  Click on the link and restore your faith in humanity – or at least in one dad, and those of humanity under the age of 10.

Tags: 49ers, anti-depressants, baseball, football, Kyle Williams, New York Giants, perspective, playoffs, Prozac, San Francisco 49ers, San Francisco Giants, Zoloft