Last weekend I was in Chicago. Sitting on the couch in the Airbnb, I fumbled through streaming apps trying to find the Bills game. A weak Wi-Fi signal hampering my efforts. The outcome—important to playoff seeding.
As I kept refreshing the Xfinity app, the kids asked me why didn’t I just go somewhere to watch? I heard myself start to tell them I hadn’t showered or I didn’t sleep well. If they looked at me closely, they might have seen the evidence. But I stopped and just shrugged. I couldn’t explain to them something that I didn’t quite understand myself. Thankfully, the Wi-Fi connected, and the game came onto the screen, a response no longer needed.
Later that same night, alone with the dog and cat, I went back to the kids’ question, and asked myself, why didn’t I go out for the game? I thought about the games I’ve watched at the pizza place near my new apartment in DC. The one I stumbled upon during a Thursday night football game at the start of the season.
The pizza place? Andy’s Pizza, and I’ve become a regular this season. Early game—no problem—coffee, a quick shower and head out. For the late afternoon game, I do chores too. Some Sundays, I throw on my Josh Allen jersey and head out for the pre-game. Others, I walk in at kick-off, my status in the Bills Mafia a secret.
Sundays weren’t always like this. Groceries needed replenishing and uniforms had to be washed. Family and friends iMessages left on read. The DVR full of shows that I hadn’t watched yet. More times than I want to admit, I left my phone on silent, ghosting friends or dates. I couldn’t get away from the responsibilities of parenting so I would begrudgingly shower, counting the minutes until I could be laying on the couch again. I had to restore depleted energy from the week before while reserving energy for the week ahead. Sundays were recovery from being mom, worker, friend, no one and someone all at the same time.
Back to Andy’s. The first time I went to Andy’s for Sunday football, I left my jersey at home, opting for a Bills t-shirt instead. I walked in and found a seat at the far end of the bar, waiting patiently for the bartender to notice me. While I waited, my fingers fiddled with an empty straw wrapper left from another guest. After I ordered, I brought out my Kindle. During active plays, my eyes stayed fixated on the screen. But during commercials and half-time, my trusty electronic friend masked my awkwardness at sitting alone.
By late fall, I had been going to Andy’s for several weeks. I still peruse the menu even though I know what I want: a slice of pizza and a beer. Some weeks, the bar is empty, and I choose a stool right in the middle. My eyes dart between the four big screens screwed on the wall. Each one playing a different game. Other weeks, I squeeze in wherever I can find an open spot. Every week, strangers become friends. High fiving when our teams make a big play. Criticizing mistakes. Sitting among strangers, it’s easy to be an expert.
One Sunday last month, Andy’s was empty when I arrived and I chose a seat at the bar. I was wearing my Josh Allen jersey, a slice of pizza ordered, and my favorite beer placed before me before I even had time to take off my jacket and look around. I noticed a table behind me filling in, fans supporting the Bills and their opponent. After exchanging a quiet hello, I turned back to the game. Fans watching other games filled in the tables and quiet conversations began to fill the air.
And that’s when it happened. About halfway through the game, the Bills got an interception. My fists pounded the bar and I shouted out, “YES!” Quickly, my head snapped around, my cheeks reddened, and I started to apologize. I searched their faces for any indication of judgment. Nothing. They were laughing among themselves, oblivious to me. I turned toward the other end of the bar: had my outburst been in my head? I turned back in my seat, my eyebrows creased and my head tilted, a question lingering on the tip of my tongue. But before I could fully form it, I was drawn back to the TV by the announcers.
This happened before on a small island in the Gulf of Thailand. The morning, I arrived, my Facebook feed was full of Bills Mafia posts, reminding me that it was almost game time. I found a restaurant for breakfast and set up my phone to stream the game. I sat quietly sipping a Bloody Mary and eating my eggs. Between bites, I leaned in close to the small screen, trying to read the closed captioning. Every few minutes, I would hit the table or throw my hands in the air, and then quickly look around, half expecting all eyes on this crazed American. But each time I looked around the restaurant, all I could see were servers refilling water and tables being cleaned. And each time, I would take a bite of my food and resume watching the game.
As I was leaving Andy’s last month, I said to the bartender, “I won’t be back for a few weeks.” She reached out to me with her arms. Surprised, I tentatively opened myself up to receive her hug. I hugged her back. My shoulders stiff, my hands not quite meeting each other on her back. After she let me go, I didn’t know if she could feel my hesitation, so I offered a quick goodbye and hurried out.
I walked back to my apartment that night, my head tucked deep into my coat, shielding myself from the cold wind, and I thought to myself, she knows me. She looks for the guest that cheers for the Bills.
Pulled out of my thoughts back in the Airbnb, I had to ask myself, did I have valid reasons or was I simply making excuses when I didn’t go out for games? I thought about all the years I lived in Chicago and that I had never gone to a bar to watch a game. But in DC, I developed a pattern. What was I avoiding in Chicago—groups of people high-fiving each other, and my hand hanging alone in the air?