the bedrock of our identification.
Backing a team helps Americans, in particular, contend with the unease of living in the most competitive society on earth, a society in which weâre
socialized
to feel like losers. Thatâs the special sauce that capitalism puts on the burgers. Itâs how you turn citizens into efficient workers and consumers. You convince them that they are forever falling behind. Losing time. Losing money. Losing status. Losing hair. Losing potency. Losing the edge. We feel that weâre losing all the time, simply by failing to win it all. We squander our talents, we mismanage the clock, we choke in the clutch. Our teams enact public dramas that we experience as struggles to transcend our own private defects.
We need look no further for evidence than to the proliferation of sports talk radio. Anyone whoâs listened to this format will tell you that nothing lights up the phone lines like a crushing loss. And what one hears in the callersâ voices, beneath the bluster, is actually quite moving: an effort to preserve belief amid the tribulation of defeat.
Iâm afraid that brings us back to the Raiders, and to the single play I have thought about more over the past decade than, for instance, the births of my children. (Please know that I am as disgusted with myself as you are right now.)
In January of 2002, the Raiders flew east to face the Patriots in a playoff game. I had been in Somerville a few years by then, and my friend Zach had stupidly agreed to let me watch the game at his place. I can still remember the color of the sky that morning, the dense gunmetal of a looming storm. By game time, huge, Hollywood-styled snowflakes were twirling down. They blotted out the yard markers and made traction nearly impossible, which lent the game a slapstick air.
The Raiders dominated, but the Patriots rallied late, led by a rookie quarterback named Tom Brady. Down three points with two minutes left, he dropped back to pass and found his receivers blanketed.
If I close my eyes I can still see Brady there, hopping about in the snow like a sparrow. He cocks his right arm as if to pass, thinks better of it, then pulls the ball down and pats it with his left hand. At this precise moment, Raiders cornerback Charles Woodson, deployed on an impeccably executed blitz, crashes into Brady and rakes away the ball. The ball lands in the snow, where it sits for an excruciating half-second. It is one of those enthralling moments, unique to football, where nobody knows what the hell is going on. At last, Raiders middle linebacker Greg Biekert falls on the ball. The Raiders can now run out the clock. The game is over.
I rose out of my chair and made animal sounds. Then I turned to Zach and said something gracious, how the Pats had played a good game, the kind of thing I can summon only when my team has won. Zach was still watching the TV.
Zach was still watching the TV because the referee hadannounced that the play would be reviewed. Two minutes later, the referee clicked on his mic and explained that Brady was attempting to âtuckâ the ball as he was stripped and was therefore, by some malicious metaphysical logic, still in the act of passing, rendering his fumble an incomplete pass. The Raiders never recovered from the shock. They lost the game in overtime. New England went on to win the Super Bowl.
If you were to plot the fortunes of NFL franchises on a graphâsomething I have come close to doing in dark momentsâthe Tuck Play would mark the spot where the Pats began their dynastic arc while the Raiders stumbled into disgrace. This play
should
have marked the spot on the map where my devotion waned.
Just the opposite happened. I spent the next hour (read: five years) trying to get Zach to admit that Brady had fumbled the ball. I argued with strangers, too. I nearly came to blows with a guy at my gym. And I tracked every phase of the Raidersâ ensuing swoon, the carousel of
Backing a team helps Americans, in particular, contend with the unease of living in the most competitive society on earth, a society in which weâre
socialized
to feel like losers. Thatâs the special sauce that capitalism puts on the burgers. Itâs how you turn citizens into efficient workers and consumers. You convince them that they are forever falling behind. Losing time. Losing money. Losing status. Losing hair. Losing potency. Losing the edge. We feel that weâre losing all the time, simply by failing to win it all. We squander our talents, we mismanage the clock, we choke in the clutch. Our teams enact public dramas that we experience as struggles to transcend our own private defects.
We need look no further for evidence than to the proliferation of sports talk radio. Anyone whoâs listened to this format will tell you that nothing lights up the phone lines like a crushing loss. And what one hears in the callersâ voices, beneath the bluster, is actually quite moving: an effort to preserve belief amid the tribulation of defeat.
Iâm afraid that brings us back to the Raiders, and to the single play I have thought about more over the past decade than, for instance, the births of my children. (Please know that I am as disgusted with myself as you are right now.)
In January of 2002, the Raiders flew east to face the Patriots in a playoff game. I had been in Somerville a few years by then, and my friend Zach had stupidly agreed to let me watch the game at his place. I can still remember the color of the sky that morning, the dense gunmetal of a looming storm. By game time, huge, Hollywood-styled snowflakes were twirling down. They blotted out the yard markers and made traction nearly impossible, which lent the game a slapstick air.
The Raiders dominated, but the Patriots rallied late, led by a rookie quarterback named Tom Brady. Down three points with two minutes left, he dropped back to pass and found his receivers blanketed.
If I close my eyes I can still see Brady there, hopping about in the snow like a sparrow. He cocks his right arm as if to pass, thinks better of it, then pulls the ball down and pats it with his left hand. At this precise moment, Raiders cornerback Charles Woodson, deployed on an impeccably executed blitz, crashes into Brady and rakes away the ball. The ball lands in the snow, where it sits for an excruciating half-second. It is one of those enthralling moments, unique to football, where nobody knows what the hell is going on. At last, Raiders middle linebacker Greg Biekert falls on the ball. The Raiders can now run out the clock. The game is over.
I rose out of my chair and made animal sounds. Then I turned to Zach and said something gracious, how the Pats had played a good game, the kind of thing I can summon only when my team has won. Zach was still watching the TV.
Zach was still watching the TV because the referee hadannounced that the play would be reviewed. Two minutes later, the referee clicked on his mic and explained that Brady was attempting to âtuckâ the ball as he was stripped and was therefore, by some malicious metaphysical logic, still in the act of passing, rendering his fumble an incomplete pass. The Raiders never recovered from the shock. They lost the game in overtime. New England went on to win the Super Bowl.
If you were to plot the fortunes of NFL franchises on a graphâsomething I have come close to doing in dark momentsâthe Tuck Play would mark the spot where the Pats began their dynastic arc while the Raiders stumbled into disgrace. This play
should
have marked the spot on the map where my devotion waned.
Just the opposite happened. I spent the next hour (read: five years) trying to get Zach to admit that Brady had fumbled the ball. I argued with strangers, too. I nearly came to blows with a guy at my gym. And I tracked every phase of the Raidersâ ensuing swoon, the carousel of
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