Suiting Up
Super Bowl LIX: Jacket Required
OK, listen: I know it doesn’t work.
Decades of evidence demonstrate that my actions — where I’m sitting, what I’m eating, what I’m wearing — have no effect on my favorite team’s success.
Neither, in my experience, does bargaining with God. The deal for the 1994 AFC Championship Game was “either let us go to the Super Bowl, or let me kiss a girl this year.” This was as close as we got to either one:
So I knew, even as I was doing it, that sitting or standing — depending on how things were going — had no effect on the team’s performance or the game’s ultimate outcome.
Unless.
What if it did. Have you ever heard of chaos theory? The popular explanation — and the one that I encountered at somewhere around 12 years old — is that a butterfly flapping its wings in New Mexico could, eventually, cause a hurricane in China.
A precocious child, I knew that chaos theory didn’t mean that, say, my assuming a different position or eating one less piece of summer sausage in a farmhouse in Missouri would have prevented Joe Montana’s concussion in Orchard Park, New York in 1994.
No, what chaos theory meant was that I couldn’t rule it out.
Over the decades, this wish to do no harm manifested itself in various obsessive — one might even say compulsive — tics and habits. Whether it was wearing a specific hat or underwear, or engaging in a series of taps before a big third down (touch inside of right wrist, inside of left wrist, then center of left palm, center of right palm), I’d latch on to some set of actions or attire or both to give myself a sense of control over an endeavor that had nothing to do with me.
In college, at the sports bar, I limited myself to exactly one (1) beer per quarter. (In my 20s, this passed for moderation).
Just as I might have started aging out of them, my superstitions were reinforced in 2003. The Chiefs started 9-0, behind a high-powered Dick Vermeil offense. I’d watched every game at the Blarney Stone in West Philadelphia — even though I was living in Delaware at the time. It’s where I’d watched the first game, so I had to drive back up every week, wearing the exact same outfit, drinking exactly four beers.
I was also dating a young woman who’d grown up in Concord, Mass., and had invited me up to visit her family for the first time. When I’d enthusiastically accepted the invitation, the possibility that the Chiefs would still be undefeated when the trip rolled around had not occurred to me.
Of course I went; of course they lost (24-19 to the Bengals, but who’s counting).1
I will not bore you with further details of the ways I let my team down by breaking one of my routines and causing a fumble, interception, playoff loss. I will simply add that I eventually matured, and put away childish things.
I was still following them, but at arm’s length. My ethical unease with the sport itself and the team’s name in particular helped me dissociate.2
Also the team really, really stank for awhile.
But three things happened: I turned 40; the Chiefs turned out to have the World’s Greatest Quarterback; I quickly cultivated a brand-new set of superstitious tics.
So, yes, OK: I begin the game about six feet from the television, off to the left. If a play goes well, I stay where I am, obviously. If it’s a negative play, I move back roughly four feet, so that I’m now standing in the liminal space between the kitchen and living room. If the play goes well, I stay. If there’s another negative play, I move back another eight or nine feet.
Now fully in the kitchen, I’m about 16 or 17 feet from the TV, leaning on the coffee bar or kitchen island and, after two negative plays, I have at least set myself up for a positive outcome one way or another. If this next play is a good one, great. I stay where I am. If it’s another bad play and now we’re3 punting or they’ve gained a first down or scored, at least I get to move back to my initial position and start the whole thing over.
Obviously, this ritual requires a clear runway and guests — the ones who are invited back — know not to obstruct this viewing lane, or to address me directly.
I do not sit down.
I do not drink anything except water.
And clearly, if we’ve won the previous game, I must wear the same clothes. For the last two Super Bowls I have worn the following shirts:
On Sunday, the Chiefs will try to win an unprecedented third Super Bowl in a row and we’re in our fifth Super Bowl in five years and Patrick Mahomes has never not made it to the conference championship as a starter and no one’s rooting for us any more because we’re like the new Patriots (the 16-year-old who originally wore that sweatshirt would have turned himself inside out at this news), and I will be wearing my suit.
It was lucky that the Chiefs were able to rest most of their starters in the regular-season finale. They “lost” that game to the Denver Broncos, and I breathed a little easier, because I knew I was going to have to change my get-up for the Chiefs’ first playoff game anyway. We were due in Manhattan that Saturday for the memorial service of the father of a dear friend of ours, and that means most of my preferred game day garb was out of the question. But that last-game loss meant I wouldn’t be jinxing us against the Texans.
It was a lovely memorial service for a beloved acting teacher. Working actors — some you’ve heard of, many you’ve seen — went on about the man’s generosity and love for his students. I am an adult, and I know what’s important. I focused on the love in the room and not the first half of the game I was missing (except when the 11-year-old texted his mother frustratingly cryptic updates from my iPad: “Well Nico fumbled after a HUGE return like 85 yard but cheifs fumbled then we recovered it but Nico took off his helmet so yeah”).
Near the end, Katie whispered “I think you can go now.” But the event really was nice and also I’m 46 years old and I wanted credit for being a big boy. So I pooh-poohed Katie and waited until our friend Jessica thanked everyone for coming, then I walked up to her and her husband said itwasbeautifulloveyoutalktoyousoon, got in the elevator and hailed a cab out on Eighth Avenue.
It was only a 20-minute walk to the hotel, but those were precious minutes when I would have missed the first big pass to the Chiefs’ most famous boyfriend and then our first touchdown of the playoffs. Instead, I was able to make some muffled grunts and squeals as I watched those plays on my phone in stop-and-go traffic somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen.4
I made it into the hotel room just before halftime, and had just figured out my modified watching-positions when Katie keyed herself in. She’d planned to stay to help our friends clean up, but they shooed her away almost immediately. She’d texted to ask me to wait for her, but I didn’t see it because, y’know, my phone was playing the video. So she walked, and almost beat me there.
Despite knowing better, she asked “don’t you want to get out of your suit?” Then she updated our friend C via group chat.
(Obviously. I had been thinking about this for two weeks. )
“Barked” is a little strong. I said “No!” sharply.
OK, maybe I said “NO! gahhhh!”
I can’t recall exactly because the Texans were in the middle of a long drive that would have tied things up save for a missed extra point. I did not want to be talking about the lead and I certainly didn’t want to be talking about the following week. Anyway, after the game I did apologize for snapping at her.
The morning of the AFC Championship Game (the one before the Super Bowl), the 11-year-old said “Dad, you still have time to get to New York.” Because I’d watched the previous game — a win — in the Bryant Park Hotel, it made sense to recreate those conditions. Solemnly, I told him that even though, yes, I could make it to Manhattan in time for the 6:30 kickoff, it wasn’t going to happen. Sometimes we have to be realistic.
“But you’re gonna wear your suit, right?”
Of course, Bud.
Earlier this week, the same little boy, just before getting his braces on Tuesday, asked if we could delay the procedure by a week because he hasn’t had braces for the previous two Super Bowls. My response was immediate.
“No, superstitions can be fun, but our health comes first.”
I don’t want to give him any more of this psychosis than he already has. And also I was ready with this answer because the same thought had already occurred to me.
Anyway, I hope you get comfy for the big game. I won’t.
And no I’m not going to pseudoscience you. I’m well past trying to justify any of this with chaos theory.
That’s what quantum entanglement is for.
The young woman and I are still married; on balance a good trade.
They could — and should! — still change the name.
Yeah I say “we.” And yeah I know that I’m not playing. Counterpoint: maybe I am?
I think? I don’t know, please don’t fact check me on the neighborhood.
Always makes me chuckles. I love your posts. Unfortunately, we will but rooting for the Eagles on Sunday. You must have a little love for that Philly team.
I️ loved this and can relate 100%. Agree on the name change but go KC!!