If there's one thing John Q. NFL Fan hates more than the Patriots, it's their fairweather fans in general. Just as an implausible number of Cowboys fans seemed to pop up in the early nineties, the last decade or so has seen a rise in Patriots fans. Some of them - the ones who are actually from New England or who currently live there - get a free pass. But these days, Patriots fans who live in other regions are met with skepticism when they reveal their allegiance. "Why are you a Patriots fan?" people ask me, "Where are you from?" The subtext is obvious: "Are you one of those bandwagon fans who decided to like the Patriots once they started winning Superbowls?"
My standard answer is that even though I'm not from New England and in fact lived there for only one year of my life, my father is from outside Boston, and he brainwashed me at a young age. It really is true. These days, my story seems a little too convenient and I sometimes worry that it sounds like a weak alibi given the recent success of the Patriots, Red Sox and even the Celtics. Not too far from one of those fishy-sounding stories like: When I was little, I decided to be a Chicago Bulls fan because I liked that cartoon bull. And then they started winning championships! Who woulda thunk it?
Truly though, I started taking an interest in the Patriots long before they were any good. My earliest memory of my fanhood is watching the Pats lose on New Year's Day in the first round of the 1995 play-offs to the Cleveland Browns - who were coached by one Bill Belichick. Things have changed a bit since then. Anyone who denies that I have paid my dues need look no further than the mantle in my basement, which features a football autographed by the entire roster of the 1990 Patriots (Coach: Rod Rust, Quarterback: Steve Grogan, Final Record: 1-15). In the closet of my old room at my parents' house hangs the Drew Bledsoe jersey I wore frequently during my formative years (provided my mom hasn't gotten rid of it by now). And an old-school Patriots pennant, featuring Pat the Patriot, adorns the wall of my office at school.
Still, I sometimes feel this weird guilt about being a Patriots fan. The fact is, I'm pretty casual in my fandom - especially compared to the legions of rabid NFL fans all over the country. I watch the nationally televised games - at least the ones that air at a reasonable hour - but usually don't make much of an effort to catch the other ones. And I can probably name only about a third of the players on the roster.
The Patriots are about to play in their tenth Superbowl, which will be the 34th Superbowl of my lifetime. I can't help but feel that I don't deserve to root for a team this good. What about those Browns fans who wear the dog masks to games and care about their team more than I ever have or ever will care about anything? If there were any cosmic justice, they'd have a ring for each finger.
If the success of your favorite sports team were directly proportional to how hard you rooted for them, then the Red Sox, whom I grew up cheering, and the Washington Nationals, whom I first adopted when they moved to D.C. thirteen years ago, would have an embarrassment of World Series rings. (In fairness, the Red Sox have three in the last fourteen years, so I'm hardly complaining.) After all, I watch both teams' games fanatically, I pay attention to every one of their roster moves, I attend multiple games each year - and I keep score.
But instead of one of my baseball teams, it's my football team, whose games I watch only intermittently, when there's no baseball on, that has reached unprecedented heights. I won't be thinking about any of this on Sunday, though. Instead, I'll be reveling in the opportunity to watch #12 lead the offense down the field in yet another big game. And I'll be reveling in my role as Cocky Fan of Heavily Favored, Widely Disliked Dynasty Team. Let's do it, Pats.
