Though certainly an avid sports fan, professional football has never been my obsession; still, I snatched at the opportunity to attend a Jets game this past Sunday. While no dedicated fan to the sport, I appreciate nearly any live event in which drinking during the day, or during mass transportation, is both acceptable and expected. Stadium architecture always fascinates me as well, a synergy of modern sleek steel and a more primordial sense of Lek mating grounds. There is a collective cultural archetype and nostalgia that I always imbibe in big stadiums, these contemporary colesseums. The same sentiment that binge-watching Friday Night Lights induces, being a patch in some large quilt of diverse but cohesive Americana.
Three ladies, dutifully dressed in various shades of green, mine the most neon and the least symbolic of the actual team colors, we were surrounded by loyalists, mostly men, shouting, sometimes angry and exasperated, often proud and full of joy. Occasionally, they would offer to us their few cents on the matter, a referee call or a foolish play. When the Jets won, very narrowly, with an ugly but effective field goal kick that sort of lobbed the ball pathetically through the air, we received high-fives and a face full of cheers. A win, combined with some cheap domestic beer and a deliciously expensive hotdog slathered in ketchup, left me sated.
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