My wife’s most-repeated line to our kids was/is: “Make good choices.”
I wish somebody had told me that when I decided to become a Minnesota Vikings fan. Trouble is I don’t know that I ever made that conscious decision and don’t know how it happened. I’m guessing I started young, well before I had a fully developed brain; because I never would’ve chosen them now.
I was born into a mixed marriage – my dad a Bears fan and my mom a Vikings fan. There wasn’t any peer pressure either way. I’m guessing I was just like any other son and naturally went with my mom to antagonize my dad.
It could’ve been also because the Vikings games were always televised locally, so I watched them most. We went to Mankato to see their training camp a few times. Or maybe it's because of my Norwegian heritage and it was just a genetic thing.
But here I am 50 years later, having suffered through Drew Pearson pushing off, Super Bowl losses, more crucial missed field goals than a person should endure, and just flat-out chokes and awful performances. The thing is, I don’t know why I even care. It’s so stupid. Yet I do.
I’ll probably never see a Vikings Super Bowl title. I’m resigned to that. The only thing I could do is to renounce them and declare my allegiance to another team. Then, you know they’d win the Super Bowl the next year. I should do that for all other Viking fans. Take one for the team. But I’m not a band-wagoner.
I’m going to sit on my recliner every Sunday for three hours, enjoy a Minneapolis Miracle type moment every decade or so, but mostly just take my shots like all those bum heavyweights who got thrown in against Muhammad Ali at the end of his career. Thank you, sir, may I have another?
Maybe it’ll count towards the boatload of time I’ve built up in Purgatory. Hello, Satan, I’m a Vikings fan. “Jeesh, buddy, sorry we can’t keep ya now.”
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