Tran-spotting: Crimson Helps Skeptical Fan Find A Home Team

Growing up in Houston, Texas, can have a profound impact on your relationship with the game of football.

The former-Houston-Oilers-now-Tennessee Titans had a devious way of making an entire city leap on the proverbial bandwagon in anticipation of a championship and then stomping upon the heart of every single individual who ever shouted, “Luv Ya Blue.”

Year after year, my older brother and I would start wearing only periwinkle and white (much to my father’s dismay and confusion) towards the end of each season, hoping that our terrible fashion faux pax would be viewed as a heartfelt offering to the football playoff gods.

In those days, we had a talented corps of Pro Bowlers who were all capable of taking us to the big game.

Warren Moon, Cris Dishman, Ray Childress, Mike Munchak, Bruce Matthewsall—nationally recognized players whose immense talent was surpassed only by their desire to bring home a championship.

But after zooming effortlessly through the competition during the regular season, the Oilers always sputtered come playoff time.

Fumbles, missed field goals and poor blocking forced their loyal fans to become increasingly jaded as each playoff season approached.

There was the Chiefs 28, Oilers 20.

There was the 26-24 loss to the Broncos in the 1991 AFC Divisional Playoffs. A 28-20 loss at the hands of the Chiefs in the 1993 Divisonal Playoffs. And of course—the game that remains a taboo subject of conversation in Houston—the 41-38 overtime loss to Buffalo in the 1992 Wild Card game.

In each game the Oilers led by a comfortable margin.

And the Oilers lost each game.

With each loss, Houstonians began to put up an emotional wall between themselves and their love of their hapless home team.

We weren’t even the best losers—we were the fans of a second-rate Buffalo Bills.

So even though Texas is a place where Friday night football and homecoming games reign supreme, Houston is a city that remains seriously scarred by its former professional football team. Most Houstonians try not to call any team their own simply because they fear that cheering for the home team will only result in dashed hopes and bitter disappointment.

When it comes to football, the city has a big fear of commitment.

I continued to hold my skeptical attitude towards football when I arrived at Harvard. While I do not intend this column to be counted as one of the thousands that have already berated Harvard students for their apathy towards college athletics, I was disappointed by the lack of support that the football team received.

I was disappointed in the level of competition that the team faced each weekend.

Most importantly, I wasdisappointed by the Crimson’s inability to close out games that it could have easily won.

In short, I believed that the Harvard Crimson was the collegiate version of my former choke-prone Oilers.

After Eric Johnson’s fateful catch at Yale in 1999, the 2000 campaign was full of similar disappointments, showcased by a heartbreaking 29-28 loss to Cornell, a 36-35 loss to Penn and the season-ending 34-24 loss to the Elis.

Despite the talent on last year’s roster, the Crimson ended up with a less-than-impressive 5-5 record. Even if a win seemed secure, the resourceful Crimson somehow found a way of letting it slip in the fourth quarter.

Just as I had done in Houston, I learned to attend Harvard football games with no emotional attachment, no loyalty, no allegiance to the home team. It was just too painful.

And even this year, as Harvard cruised to a 7-0 record before its showdown with Penn, I was hesitant to catch the Crimson fever.

Yes, Neil Rose and Carl Morris seemed to share an almost magical connection on the field. Yes, Dante, Laborsky & Co. could throttle any offense and stop any team’s running game. And yes, for once, the kicking crew was not blowing it for us at the end of every game. But when you’ve been disappointed as many times as I have been, you’ll find yourself doubting each success and waiting for failure to inevitably catch up with you.

Until the game against Penn.

When the Crimson was down 14-0 at one point in the first half, I found myself silently self-satisfied. I had known that Harvard’s magic could not last in the face of another undefeated opponent. Surely, Harvard was bound to choke when confronted with a talented team of equal caliber.

But happily, I was wrong.

As Harvard reeled off 28 straight points, my skepticism slowly faded as I watched Willie Alford, Rodney Thomas and Carl Morris work their game.

Every play was perfect. Every cheer for the home team was deserved.

Sitting high above the field in Section 26 on Saturday afternoon, I found myself clapping and cheering in frenzied excitement with the rest of the Stadium as Thomas blocked a Penn punt, the Crimson’s first blocked punt in over two years, and Alford scooped up an interception in a play worthy of the highlight reel.

It seemed too good to be true. The Crimson was simply too perfect. Just as I was learning to root for the home team, I feared that I would be disappointed again.

But I wasn’t. Harvard successfully closed out the game, and at the end of the fourth quarter, I saw a sight that I had never seen before at Harvard: a screaming throng of fans charging the field with their arms raised in victory and their eyes brimming with pride.

And instead of skeptically dismissing those fans and predicting that the Crimson’s next game would result in a painful, heartbreaking loss, I found myself grinning in anticipation of the next Game.

Far from southeast Texas, I had a team to call my own.

Luv ya Crimson.