 "My First Ram Game--Such Stuff as Dreams
are Made On ...Arrival"- By Rammed for Life(12/22) Part 2 of 4 |
||
| Back
to the Main Page FEATURES- The E-Zine's Quarterback Watch- -Front Office Debate- Ram-ble's Offseason Analyses Zack Neruda's FOD Analysis "E-ZINE" Fan Profiles- GRITS Ram Fan Smack Chick The HERD's home- RAMS Message Board Add yourself to The HERD's Official Roster (guestbook), if you think you are man enough! The HERD's ULTIMATE link page-add your favorite here! |
Yesterday, accompanied by my
son and by Steve Myatt (Old Hacker) and Scott Howe (ScRam), I entered the TWA Dome.
Trailing Hack, who was intent on sprinkling sage in the near end zone, Chris and I plunged
through the tunnel and emerged into the inner sanctum. In front of us spread the green
carpet with its enormous Rams horns. I had come home. It really was a weekend steeped in "such stuff as dreams are made on." Chris and I left St. Paul at 7:00 Saturday morning and arrived in St. Louis about 4:45 (thanks to those who recommended the route through Madison, Rockford, and Springfield--it was a slick route!) We checked in at the Drury Lane Inn across the street from a certain landmark of interest, a largish, brand new building that said TWA on the outside. I had appealed to Herd members to gather at planet Hollywood that evening, but I had a problem: no Ram gear. So Chris and I did a little shopping in a downtown mall. After my decades of walking through Christmas time malls that bled purple at every pore, the array of blue and gold jerseys, hats, and sweatshirts bearing that luminous Ram horn was a balm to a tormented soul. I bought a sweatshirt and Tee and Chris helped me select the perfect Ram hat: we chose "Ike's Hat," the one which, if I remember correctly, Ike designed and wears on the sidelines. Now we were ready for Planet Hollywood. I wasn't expecting too much on Saturday night. Not too many Herd members had said they would be there. I will graciously give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that, the Saturday night before Christmas, they had family affairs to attend. But what did Chris and I see as we first walked in? Ram Tee shirts. But not just any Ram shirts. These were vintage, LA Tees, bleached and worn with many washings. Timidly, I approached the 2 die hards. "Uh, hi, guys. Do you guys ever go on the Internet?" "Hell, yeah," exclaimed one, "I'm Ram 66! And this is Fishhead Ram!" I had made first contact with the brotherhood! Fishead and 66 chatted with me for 20 minutes or so as Chris and I waited for our table. I must say, I was pretty jealous of those faded L A Ram shirts. No such relics for a lonely, closet fan like myself. I asked these guys what they remembered from the L A and Anaheim years. Their most vivid memory was one I could relate to. Back there sometime in the wilderness of the 80s (I am always bad at remembering years) the Rams played S F in a Monday Night game. Fish and 66 say they brought to the game a big banner painted on a sheet. The Rams were up a lot of points and Ram fans were roaring. I remember watching the game in the basement of my home and feeling awfully good about things until ... Montana hit Taylor for a 4 yard pass that went 96 yards. The tide had turned and Montana never let go until we had lost the game and the division. Fish and 66 went out into the parking lot and ripped up that sheet in disgust. Their other major memory perfectly captures the strangely ambivalent feelings that this team often raises in its fans' hearts. It was the last game at the Big A in Anaheim. The Rams were losing the game and as the clock ticked down, a low chant arose at one end of the stadium. It quickly grew and roared throughout the arena, reverberating for 15 full minutes: "Georgia sucks, Georgia sucks, Georgia ..." And there it is, the ambivalence of a moment that threatens to divide our brotherhood. Georgia's moving of the team from L A to St. Louis plunged a dagger into the hearts of all of our So. Cal. Brethren--while simultaneously recruiting thousands of Midwesterners to the cause and compensating magnificently for their own loss of the Cardinals. 66 said that he had been unable to tolerate thoughts of the Rams for 5 years--but now he and Fish plan to make a journey to St. Louis an annual event. You know, it has always amazed me that more Ram fans didn't take Happy 4 L A's route and make a long standing commitment to hate and bitterness. It surely must be tempting. But looking at the happy grins on the faces of 66 and Fishead, I could see that, in its essence, being a fan is about love, not hate. Hell, they were going to a Rams game the next day. They had to travel a little further--but the horns were still the same and somehow, miraculously, the team was winning again. I hope Hap someday learns to let go of that rotting bitterness and return to his love. ================================================ Sunday morning, I showered by about 7:10 AM. Chris and I breakfasted at the Drury Inn's buffet and then headed for the street corner. We had purchased a Ram yearbook at Waldenbooks. It was out of date already, showing numerous cut and traded players and offering only college photos of the rookies. But the pictures were large and we were on patrol for autographs. The first one who came along was Timmerman. This, folks, is a large man! But he was very gracious and signed with a flourish and a Bible verse. My son hung out there for an hour and a half, getting signatures from such players as Rich Coady, Cameron Spikes, Grant Wistrom, Ricky Proehl, Taje Allen, Dre Bly, and two coaches, Frank Gansz and Jim Hannifan. We actually saw Martz go in before any of the players, but, being rookies at this sort of thing, we weren't really prepared to get his autograph. I would really have loved that! My son was, shall we say, pumped. He loved making contact with the players. He especially loved meeting Rich Coady, who plays the position my son plays. I think some dreams were running through Chris' head during that encounter: "Hey, if this Nordic looking guy can make it at safety, just maybe I can ..." About 9:30, I left Chris to keep trolling for autographs and I headed over to Planet Hollywood. Glancing through the posts this morning, I saw ScRam's account of the meeting. That was neat, because the whole thing was pretty exciting for me, too. I had wanted to see Balzer do his radio show because I listen to him over the net when I can and I like him. When I entered Planet Hollywood, his sidekick was filling time waiting for him. I looked around and saw ... hundreds of people in Ram gear. I thought, there is no way I can figure out who is a Herd member! I had thought of bringing name tags, but then chickened out on it. Now, I had no idea what to do. I stood around for about 40 minutes, looking at people and wondering what on earth I was going to do. Howard came in and started his show. He did a couple of segments that were hard to hear because they had ESPN on the TVs piping louder than the PA version of the radio show. Howard called a Native American gal from Cal who had assured him of the value of sage during their first, pre-season sage burning. He also promised cigars and a bit of champagne for everyone if the Rams won and clinched HFA. I was still wondering what to do. Now, I am a very shy person. It is very hard for me to go up to strangers and make contact. But, I thought, something must be done here. So, during a break, I called out, "Howard!" Balzer looked up. "Hey, man, can you put out a call to herd members?" Howard looked blank. "I'm an internet guy in from out of town. I am supposed to meet up with some Herd members, but I don't know what they look like ..." Howard nodded vigorously, taking the point, and scribbled a note to himself. As he came out of his break, he put out an appeal for Herd members. "Herd! I'm in the herd," called out a big, burly guy in full Ram regalia. I wound my way through the throng and touched the big guy on the shoulder.. "Hey man, I'm RFL ..." "RFL--I'm Old Hacker!" It was Steve Myatt, and he had three things for me: a hearty handshake, a box of Warner Crunchtime cereal, and some home-grown Missouri sage. "And this here is ScRam," he said, introducing me to a lean, fully decked-out die hard wearing a grin from ear to ear. Now I was really at home. We milled around for a while, got acquainted, and talked of looking up Randy Karraker. Old Hacker had e-mailed Randy K to get information on a tailgating location. But I was waiting for my son. Chris was still trolling for autographs, so we headed in that direction. Sure enough, we saw him walking towards us smiling broadly. He had gotten 5-6 more autographs. ScRam then produced his secret weapon: he had heard that Chris was wavering between Ram and Buc fandom, and had brought along a Herd Tee-Shirt to help move Chris in the right direction. "Only 100 of these made," ScRam said proudly. Well, there we were laden with cereal, Tee shirts, auotgraph books, binoculars, camera, and sage. Chris ran some of the excess baggage up to the room, and we crossed the street to shake hands with Randy K, who was just arriving. That was a real pleasure. I made a point of specifically thanking R K for the time he spends with us, something few media professionals are willing to do. He very graciously said that he enjoys the interaction. "'Urry up, Please! It's Time!" And so, to wholly dislodge from its context a quotation from "The Wasteland," it was. Time to enter the TWA Dome. Old Hacker had business to attend to--the ritual sprinkling of the sage in the south end zone. Old Hacker led us through the tunnel and into the inner sanctum. Some Giants were doing skill things, kicking FGs and so forth, in the near end zone. Hack disturbed their aura by sprinkling some sage and the kicker made some lame FG efforts--prophetic of what was to come! Later, we went out into the mezzanine to chat. We talked about hunting dogs, the Front Office Debate, and the whereabouts of Fast Eddie (I don't think anyone knows). We made plans to meet after the game, and Chris and I began the long, hard climb. On the way up, we stopped for a nosh. I could just hear James JM wondering about the concessions and their prices. Well, guys, beers were about $4.50 to $5.50, hot dogs, $2.00, and my brat cost $3.50. I thought that brat was good, but the bun was a bit steamed. Sorry, guys, Comiskey Park does those brats better! "There isn't a bad seat in the house," Hack had promised, and he was right. But some seats were nearer than others. Ours were not! Section 439, Row XX. "Hmm, XX, that must be 3 rows from the top," I thought. Well, we were at the top, all right--the only thing behind us was the wall! "Well, Chris, we don't have to worry about anyone telling us, 'Down in front!'" We were a long way up, but the view was unrestricted, and we had that vantage point from which game films are taken. With the binoculars, we could see pretty well, though we ended up tracking the ball just like the TV cameras and missing out on some of the route combinations. Some Giant fans were near us, but our immediate neighbors were Ram fans. Next to Chris, a 12 year old daughter was trying to make sense of he dad's explanation of what a 1st down was. "Dad, just lemme watch the game!" she eventually said--before falling asleep on his shoulder. The pre-game festivities were like those in every sports arena. A grocery store sponsored a "parachute drop" in which contestant attempted to catch small parachutes in their grocery carts. My son was irate when neither contestant managed to catch a parachute! These youngsters have high standards for achievement! Then the lights went down. Below us to our left, smoke roiled above the Ram players' tunnel. The roar drowned out the announcer. It was a powerful moment. For me, it was an apotheosis of fandom. After more than three decades, my Rams were taking the field and I was there. That would have been overpowering in itself. But when you add to that the miracle of this year, the resurrection of the team from last year's morbidity into this year's transcendence, the culmination of a year that has moved steadily from early promise to complete regular-season fulfillment, and the final bonding that, in Vermeil's apt words, are making this team unambiguously the ST. LOUIS Rams, the triumph and sublimity of the moment swept through the stadium in a rip tide of confidence. Fans all around me roared for their team, and the atmosphere was a remarkable one. Several times on Sunday, Old Hacker told me that the Rams cannot be beat in this building. As the team swarmed out of that tunnel, I knew what he meant. A rare and wholly genuine confidence pervades the place. The fans quite simply KNOW that their team has a decisive talent advantage on their opponents--whoever they may be. Furthermore, they have watched this team play its heart out all season long with never a let down. The fans TRUST this team to know its business and to keep their motors revving for a full 60 minutes. They exulted without bravado or pleading. It quite simply did not occur to them that the team would let them down. They were right, too. I glanced at the Giants fans and down at the Giants on the team. The latter are experienced professionals who have played in hostile stadia from Dallas to Philadelphia. Yet this was not hostility. I never saw any Ram fans pay the slightest attention to the giants people. No one cussed them or poured beer on them or threw batteries. And no one really showed much animosity to the Giant team, either. I had the impression that the Giants must have been impressed by the sheer, high-spirited exaltation of this team and its fans who were to busy bonding with each other to pay much attention to these visitors. I am definitely biased. Yet it seemed to me a very powerful and intimidating moment. The result of all this is, I must say, a strange feeling. There is a kind of nervous anxiety that all athletes and fans associate with big sporting events. I remember walking up the hill to watch Bethel play is nemesis, St. johns College this fall. As some of you recall, it was the day before the first S F game. Bethel beat St. John's for the first time in 21 tries just before the Rams broke the Whiner streak. As I walked up that hill, my heart was pounding with desire and tension. Here at the Ram game, that feeling was missing. It wasn't that I wasn't pumped or thrilled. I was. It was just that confidence. Like the fans around me, I simply could not conceive of this team being whipped. I KNEW them, through and through, and I knew I was about to partake of a wonderful and satisfying experience. I KNEW they would make plays. I KNEW they would demonstrate overwhelming talent. And I KNEW there was nothing the Giants could do about it. Some people who endure my posts call me a worrier. I am. 32 years of broken hearts have taught me to be. I try to foresee where the breakdowns will come from so I can prepare myself. I can ALWAYS see where the heartbreak will emerge ... Except for this year with this team. It is quite simply superior. And there I sat, happily, confidently, waiting for the wondrous pageant to unfold. Not a tremor of worry in sight. |
|