The "Stiller" Nation

I am a transplanted Pittsburgher. And beyond the usual fish-out-of-water scenarios (why do these people say Yennz insead of “you guys” or “ya’ll”?), it’s a nice city. Lovely bridges, friendly people, museums, tasty, if heart-attack- inducing, food (kudos to whoever came up with the goodness that is French fries on a sandwich). But….its biggest attraction is sports. There’s hockey and baseball and basketball, but who cares about them. Let’s talk Football. Specifically, the black and gold, winners of 5 Super Bowls: The Steelers.
This town bleeds black and gold. I’m not joking. Let me lay out my case:
Sports talk radio commentators can blather on for hours about 1 play. If there is an injury, everyone in town is speculating on his return. When Big Ben had his big crash? Uninterrupted news coverage of the event. Nothing else happened in Pittsburgh that day. NOTHING. There were tailgaters in the hospital parking lot. (Take a minute, let that seep into your consciousness. Tailgaters. Hospital. Parking lot. Grilling hot dogs. Beer. Lawn chairs. All true. Shaking your head in disbelief? Yep, me too).
The most famous play in Steeler history, the Immaculate Reception, is immortalized in plaster and planted by the down escalator at the Pittsburgh Airport. Everyone who makes it to Baggage Claim is greeted by Franco Harris. A fitting arrival to the city, don’t you think?
When the Steelers went to the Super Bowl 2 years ago, every other song on the radio was a Steeler song. Usually recorded in the basement of some would-be rock star. My favorite was the ode to the oddness of Polamalu’s name. I might have sung along. It was catchy.
The week before Christmas, while cruising the mall with The Schwab, to what did our eyes behold, but a family, all 5 decked out in Steeler jerseys, waiting in line for a picture with the big guy. That’s devotion right there.
It’s infectious, this love of the Steelers. I lived in Cleveland for 6 years and never quite got into it. (Then again, they suck. And howl like deranged animals in some kind of quasi dog call. And they wear poop brown and orange. It’s like a crazy 70’s experiment in décor gone horribly wrong.)
And now? I’ve caught the bug. The evidence above proves it: You can’t help but get sucked in. I gasp when Willie Parker is tackled and wait, with bated breath, to be sure he gets up with a spring in his step. I still mourn the loss of Joey Porter to the Dolphins. I want to run my fingers through Polamalu’s hair. I have watched the Super Bowl DVD 42,562 times (thanks Schwab). I likey Hines Ward (he does have a fab smile). Oh and Ike Taylor, he’s from my home state. I cheer for him for this reason alone. I’m loyal like that.
And in the penultimate experience for a Steelers fan, I attended a game. Just 1 so far, but it was a good one.
I paid an exhorbitant amount of money for the Schwab and I to attend Jerome Bettis’ last home game (we won’t talk about the madness on Ebay that resulted in my securing the tickets. It wasn’t pretty.) Scene: Reluctant sporting a Steeler sweatshirt, emblazoned with logo’s, Hines Ward Jersey (NOT pink. That’s a rant for another day) with Terrible Towel tucked into jeans. We joined the legions of fans migrating from downtown parking lots, across the bridge, to our mecca: Heinz Field. It was a blustery January day, and I was downing an icy cold brew at 11 a.m.
In the 4th quarter, there was a video montage of Jerome Bettis’ greatest moments. The entire stadium, thousands of my compatriots, were shouting, “one more year”, furiously waving their Terrible Towels. I admit it okay? I was one of them. I might have had a tear in my eye while I did it too. It was very moving.

Maybe you had to be there.
It was the Best. Day. Ever.

But, what does all of this MEAN? I have joined them. I drank the kool-aid.
I’m a Steelers fan.


But I still left my jersey at home when I visited Santa.

Inaugural Address

I am a sports fan.
Reluctantly.
I am athletically incompetent. I never played a sport. I have no hand/eye coordination (much to the consternation of my athletically gifted father). I am the epitome of the person you pick last for your team. I hate to sweat. I might be the girliest girl you will ever meet. For more than 20 years I was happily oblivious to the winners of super bowls, national championships, stanley cups and world series, and ignorant of contract extension fights, union disagreements, luxury taxes, parody, television rights and the foils and foibles of sports stars addicted to: crack, hookers and/or steroids....and I was okay with that. And now? These are all things I have a burning desire to know, and talk about, ad nauseum.

So why, why would a girl who only went to Super Bowl parties for the snacks and gossip, why would I become a late blossoming sports fan? I moved in with a dude. And not just any dude, my husband, the Super Sports Fan. He's "The Schwab". He remembers the score of games he watched when he was 10. He can rattle off the names of all of the Hall of Fame Steelers. He understands the rules in Hockey. He talks about the RBI's of players who long ago hung up their bun-huggers and stashed the HGH, and compares them to today's players. He knows the colleges attended by most NFL players. Chuck Noll is a god. Marino might be too. Western Pennsylvania has produced many current and former NFL greats. The Schwab is a hotbed of useless sports facts. And I live with him.

There is ESPN on in our house. All. The. Time. I never knew that Sports Center repeated itself sixty million times a day. And now I do. I'm still not sure if that makes me a better person or not.

Because I watch, I have opinions. Usually the Schwab is the only one who hears them, but I thought to myself the other day, "Reluctant, EVERYONE should be privy to the inner-workings of your psyche. Your thoughts and ideas are very, VERY important. They NEED to be shared with the world." And thus, a blog is born.