STEELER NATION, DISPLACED

(Before I get started on my rant of the day, stay tuned tomorrow for a detailed report on the three guests we received Wednesday from Sarasota; the spiritual discussion was so rich. Also, tomorrow afternoon is our big meeting here, which I’ll blog on Sunday. Less than an hour from now, I’m heading down to Miami with a woman named Mary Ellen, who will show me “Little Havana” and other sites of a city I’ve never explored. Plan on lots of photos from there, probably Monday. Okay, now I can relay to you something that has been weighing heavily upon my heart.)  

Back in western Pennsylvania, everyone is a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. It isn’t that I don’t like the Pittsburgh Steelers, it’s just that I’d come to despise them. I’m ambivalent now, but back in the day, growing up in Northeastern Ohio, my family rooted for the Cleveland Browns—especially my dad. The Browns and the Steelers were more rivalrous than cats and dogs (big cats, and mean dogs), so I used to hate everything about Pittsburgh, especially the fact that they won most the time. I used to think Terry Bradshaw was the ugliest man on earth, but couldn't deny he was the best quarterback on the very same planet.

Okay. I got it. You're Troy Polamalu.

I live two hours from Pittsburgh now, and the fans are as crazy as advertised. To me, the ultimate sign of nuthood (besides waving yellow bath towels) is wearing a Troy Polamalu jersey. It seems that every other person in western Pennsylvania owns one, including women and babies. Dogs, too. To what depths does humanity plunge, I wonder, when individuals, born of God, unique as snowflakes, surrender their identities to assume that of a person with womanish hair whose claim to fame is: he makes it extremely difficult for other people to catch footballs thrown them by quarterbacks not nearly as unlovely as Terry Bradshaw (which is all of them).

Get a life, dude.

This jersey thing irritates me, obviously. Something about the Steelers themselves has irritated me for years, though I’m mostly over it, thanks to the realization that God is going to eventually save them, too.

So I come to South Florida thinking: This is not only going to be a nice break from the Pennsylvania winter, but I’ll also be getting away from Steelers fans for awhile. What a refreshing change of pace.

Oh, shit.

Then what happens? I FIND MYSELF IN THE MIDDLE OF STEELERS NATION! WTF!? There is a whole fan base in this town, all Steelers-crazed. But that’s not the worst of it, oh no. If only. Waylan and Regena are gung-gung-ho for the men in yellow and black. Where does this leave me? Sucking my thumb.  

I know when I am beaten. I am a gracious man. As they say, if you can’t beat them, take your thumb from your mouth and join them. So: Go Steelers. Give me a Terrible Towel, and I’ll wave it. Turn on an NFL Sunday show with Terry Bradshaw commenting, and I’ll watch it.

I know when I'm beaten.

But if the cute little pooch, Zack, shows up tomorrow morning in a Troy Polamalu jersey, that's where I draw the line.

© 2013 by Martin Zender