Bleach Social: Where Are You Watching Chiefs-Texans?

I watch quietly in my home. I tune out all distractions, and since I don’t know any other Texans fans in the area, I just watch alone. I usually do some housework before the game, in an effort to keep myself from thinking too much. When the game starts, I’ll pop a beer and settle on the couch.

By half time I’ve usually had two or three beers and my wife has moved to the bedroom. I think she fears that my antics may cause birth defects for our unborn child so she simply slips into “I can’t believe I married this guy” mode and just stays away hoping that it will pass and I’ll return to normal. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard her crying on the phone to her mother — something about “you never said it would be like this”. If she does come out before the game is over, she is careful to check the score before saying anything. Learned that one the hard way.

When the game is over, I’ve usually killed another six or seven beers and switch to scotch. If it’s an early game, I’ll put on Red Zone and just sit there blankly staring at the TV mumbling under my breath as the alcohol slowly equalizes my blood pressure. I’m fairly certain that if I watched a game sober, I’d have had a heart attack by now. It’s medicinal.

I make it a point to avoid any contact with BRB during this time, as I’m afraid that further discussion on the game will drive me over the edge. It’s like asking a recovering heroin addict to talk about the effects of drugs while in withdrawal. The scotch is my methadone.

Eventually, I slowly come down enough to be able to capably re-enter society. My wife comes back out of the bedroom, we have dinner, and go back to our normal lives for another six and a half days before the cycle repeats.

Oddly, though, the cycle seems to be the same regardless of if we won or lost.

At 9 a.m. Pacific time I get out of bed and try to avoid waking my wife. There’s no reason she should bear witness to the ritual. I mark my face with blue and red paint and don my Brian Cushing jersey.

I take an old wastepaper basket out of the closet and set it in the middle of the living room floor. It is metal, with multiple singe marks inside. I light a match and toss it into the basket. Immediately following the match is a photo of the opposing team’s starting quarterback (I need kindling after all), and a picture of Frank Bush (hopefully, by burning his picture, the demons responsible for his Nougat-2 defense will be dispelled once and for all).

I then open the cabinet below the television where idols of Durga, Buddha, and Jobu reside (Buddha keeps the peace between Durga and Jobu) and I bow six times to each idol.

Then I would sacrifice a live chicken for the final rite…but it’s hard to get a live chicken in suburban Seattle. So I settle for last night’s dinner of Ezell’s fried chicken. The cat, hiding in the bathroom, breathes an audible sigh of relief. Into the can the chicken goes and just before the smoke alarm can be set off, I cap the fire with a pot lid, and bow one more time to each idol.

I get dressed, watch exactly four minutes of Sunday NFL Countdown (part because that’s how long I have before we have to go, and part because that’s as much as I can tolerate of Chris Berman in one sitting) and finish by flipping off Chris Berman for good luck.

My wife and I enter the Spot and an eerie silence falls over the room as we take our usual seat. The next 7-8 hours at our table consist of prayers for excruciating, game-long injuries, deriding poor defensive play, cheering for touchdowns and one generally uninterrupted streak of swearing. I too, have some choice words during this span as well.

They love us at the Spot.