About The Author

(Note: This is more of a personal essay than a blog entry about the NFL. That said, it's one of the best things I've ever written. Even if you think, "I know where he's going with this," I ask you to read the whole thing. There are a few curse words, so apologies if that offends you. Feedback would be especially appreciated on this piece.) 

It’s a sickness you know.

Spending this much time, energy and identifying myself so much with a group of millionaires I’ve never met who honestly don’t care nearly as much about the outcome of the games as I do. There are times after a tough Giants loss where I am miserable until Thursday of the next week. Some particularly grueling losses you don’t really ever get over. I can rattle the dates of those games off without any effort. January 5, 2003. November 27, 2005. January 11, 2008. December 19, 2010. I’ve always had a thing for dates.

If you broke down being a die-hard sports fan logically, it wouldn’t make any sense. Almost every scenario breaks your heart.  Your team stinks year in and year out-crushing. Your team is solid, but never quite gets over the hump- frustrating. Your team finds ways to lose the big-game-heartwrenching. If you looked at it analytically, you’d be better off watching the theater. A bad show might be disappointing, but you won’t find yourself losing sleep over it.

So, why do it? Why spend money buying jerseys, tickets, NFL Sunday ticket and huge flat screen TVs? Why get worked up, scream and kick walls over a bunch of guys trying to move a ball across a field? There’s not a reason that makes sense. But I can tell you why I do it.

February 3, 2008.

Back to my thing for dates. 3 years ago tonight, I was at the original Mini-Meadowlands, a place where I’d watched my favorite team win and lose games in the company of the same people for the better part of a decade. But this wasn’t Week 6 against Washington, where you go to eat taco salad, watch the scoreboard to see if Philly’s losing, and hang around for the late game when the Jets fans showed up to watch their game. This was the fucking Super Bowl. Against a team that was 18-0 and shooting to be the best of all time.

In a moment of honesty, I’ll tell you what everyone in that room felt deep down, but no one dared mention: none of us thought they would win. Not when they had a 10 minute drive to start the game, not when the Defensive line knocked Brady around like no one had all year, and not when they took a 10-7 lead mid-way through the 4th Quarter.

The Patriots took the ball with about 5 minutes left and for the first time all game, started methodically moving the ball down the field. At this point, I was standing up. The seat that had been “my seat” for 6 years suddenly had no appeal to me. Inside of 4 minutes, the Patriots started killing the clock. I remember saying “These assholes are losing, and they’re still so confident that they’re killing the fucking clock.” With 2:39 left, they scored a Touchdown to go up 14-10. What a cruel joke. Super Bowls only come around maybe every 10 years if you’re lucky. We just played a great game against the best team of all time, played them tough throughout, and we’re still gonna lose. At that exact moment, I was longing for the 4-12 2003 Giants. At least that team had the courtesy to be out of it by Halloween.


I’m always the negative one. Chad’s the one who shouts nonsense on seemingly random plays. Hansen’s the one who makes sarcastic comments and absurdly funny absolute statements like “There’s not a team in the NFL who can stop the Saints punting game.” Nick just drinks. So naturally as the negative one, my first thought was “No way that’s a catch.” The ball bounced off his head for Christ’s sake, it’s gonna be incomplete. After the replay showed that David Tyree did in fact catch the ball with his helmet, the Giants still had to get into the end zone.

“Mom’s Screaming”

In the latter part of the Giants drive, we started to notice a foolproof way of telling how the next play was going to go. Chad’s mother, who was upstairs in the kitchen watching the game on a TV a few seconds ahead of ours, would yell after every good play for the Giants. On the 2 plays after the Tyree catch-nothing. Then a slight noise upstairs on Steve Smith’s 3 and 12 completion. As the Giants lined up for 1^st and 10 with 35 seconds left, Chad’s little brother Al calmly said “Mom’s screaming.” About 2 seconds later we all were as well. The Giants had the lead with just a few seconds remaining. They might actually do it.


In the 2 weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, I spent some time wondering how I’d react if they actually won. I had assumed I’d start to cry, but that didn’t happen. After we all exchanged hugs and watched the beginning of the celebration, a bunch of text messages started pouring in. These were people I knew from college, family members, whoever, congratulating me. Congratulating me. Like I’d done anything. And that’s when I realized that to most people who know me, that’s what I am- the Giants fan. I think most people would rather be “The Really Good Athlete” “The Guy with the Really Hot Girlfriend” or even “The Guy who is good enough at something, anything, that we can identify him with something he does, rather than his favorite football team.” Most of the time, I’ll admit, I’d rather be those guys also.

But not that night. That night, February 3, 2008, 3 years ago tonight, the New York Giants were the best football team in the world. The thing I legitimately cared more about than anyone I knew had rewarded me in the best way possible. I still go back to that night and relive it my head a lot. And that’s not healthy. It’s not anything to be proud of. But it’s who I am. I’m Andrew Neumann, the sickly obsessed, secretly desperate New York Giants fan.

And for one night, it was all worth it. And that’s why I am the way I am.