Sunday, Sunday

Image courtesy of @bizimel

When a MAGA hat pops up magically in Tom Brady’s locker, as he’s conducting I believe a pre-game interview, I call my agent at CAA and inform him I no longer wish to root for the New England Patriots. I have misgivings, anyway, about supporting over-achieving sports teams that aren’t the Yankees. 

We’ve also had a long-standing agreement with the New York franchises — that as and when I publish a bestselling novel, I am highly likely to transfer my affections thereby. It takes me the rest of Donald Trump’s presidency, by which time I am almost 35, to finally make a move. I inform the Knicks and then the Yankees that I’m “coming home,” after months-long negotiations with the Boston Celtics and the St. Louis Cardinals come to nothing. 

The Mets hear of my homecoming, and dispatch first baseman Pete Alonso and shortstop Francisco Lindor to spend chunks of the offseason with me. They make their case during gaming sessions of MLB The Show, usually at Pete’s house, and Lindor’s constantly trying to steal bases. Star pitcher Jacob DeGrom and I exchange texts, but he can’t commit to the side beyond the upcoming season. 48 hours before Opening Day, I ask Yankees GM Brian Cashman to fax me a contract, ‘cause Brian likes to fax things. (He says it reminds him of “the good old days,” by which point fax had already been rendered obsolete.) I’m at Yankee Stadium on Opening Day, wearing the ubiquitous black hat I swore I never would.

The New York Jets.

I give the Jets most of my word, if they will stick to theirs and make all the right moves on Draft Day. They select Ahmad ‘Sauce’ Gardner and Jermaine Johnson in the first round, and I tell friends and family that I’m going to be a New York Jet. They’re finally going to do it: they’re finally going to behave like a competent sports organisation and break the curse! 

I am in their war room, strategically avoiding team owner Woody Johnson, for his service as Trump’s Ambassador to the UK, and for having thus said some dumb shit about immigrants, when Coach (Robert) Saleh excitedly yells Gardner’s name into a telephone. I pause for a moment. That’s exactly the sort of unhinged nonsense the Jets pull on live television, when they overpromise their fans a winning season.

I have an opportunity to purchase a Jets jersey roundabouts my 36th birthday. Even though I have designs on their black-and-green away thread, I can’t bring myself to checkout and pay. They’re always going to be the fucking Jets. I buy a Justin Herbert jersey instead, (end up gifting that away because it fits me like a dress), and immediately abandon the Gang Green on all forms of social media. 

The Los Angeles Chargers. 

Chargers GM Tom Telesco walks me round the team’s new home at SoFi Stadium. This is less than 48 hours before the team faces the Los Angeles Rams, with whom they share this cathedral to California sports. The sun hits the grass at such perfect angles, and giant screens transmit all the cool graphics Mr. Telesco’s social media team whips up in an office not far from here. It’s the equivalent, I’m telling you, of drowning in an ocean made of lemonade. 

I tell Mr. Telesco I’m looking for a new NFL team to root for. This is despite already knowing that it will be exceptionally difficult to root against Justin Herbert, who is singlehandedly the most spellbinding athlete I’ve seen play the game since, well, Jay Cutler on the Denver Broncos. Telesco says we can make something happen fairly quickly, and I say we should, and so we shake hands on I’m not sure what exactly. I text Justin Herbert word that I’m pumped to see him light up the AFC West, the Chargers’ division, after Telesco gives me Herbert’s number; on the condition that I say I got it from Coach (Brandon) Staley. Herbert doesn’t reply. He never replies. Too busy thinking about football, he claims, whenever we meet unexpectedly — usually outside Coach Staley’s office. 

I appreciate the vibe they have over there, which reminds me of the precious years before a promising startup turns evil, when everything about their branding and their tech and their people feels like the most progressive, forward-thinking business you’ve ever seen in motion. The Chargers, though, really seem to value high-character guys. Even the smallest details seem pored over for several hours, which is the sense I get from how purposefully cool their social media is. Maybe this is the rare NFL franchise that will do the right thing, when called upon by civil law or the science of head trauma. 

Telesco calls my room while I’m watching Jomboy videos, checking to see if I’ve made up my mind. I tell him I’ve got one more stop but things are looking really good. 

The New Orleans Saints.

Former Saints coach Sean Payton says he’ll handle the conversation on behalf of the organisation given our history together. Whilst a New England Patriot fan, I once said something or other to the media about planning to “die a New Orleans Saint,” and I actually meant it. Drew Brees’ air missiles, especially to tight-end Jimmy Graham, were some of the most beautiful connections I’d ever had the privilege to witness. Then ‘Bountygate’ happened, and I wasn’t quite so sure how to trust Brees or Coach Payton again.

Everyone else — players, the media, fans — just moved on, as is the case with most unsavoury headlines in the National Football League. I meet Coach Payton at his favourite steakhouse, several months now since he announced his retirement. He’s looking forward to his next life; spending more time with his kids, doing media stuff, you know how it goes. Coach says there’s an opportunity: the franchise and I could move on from him without moving on from each other. He knows I’m thinking about it, seriously, ‘cause I’ve come all the way out to Louisiana. 

I say I have concerns, you know, about the locker room. Whether I’ll be rooting for my kinds of guy, in quarterback Jameis Winston and running back Alvin Kamara, who’s done me huge favours on Madden recently but still. Coach gives me a ticket to the season opener against the old rival the Atlanta Falcons, and says he hopes to see me in the stands. 

“How will you, Coach, if you won’t be there?”

The Las Vegas Raiders.

I call Tom Telesco hours before the Chargers host the Raiders at SoFi and say this is it, I think: I’m excited to watch Justin Herbert play his way into the Hall of Fame, and I’m excited to be a Los Angeles Charger — for real this time. 

It looks like a gorgeous afternoon in California, the kind I imagine makes people worry just a tad less about climate change. I struggle to keep my eyes on the stream, dozing repeatedly from all that flying across the league. In the third quarter, with the Chargers two touchdowns up, I shake myself awake and witness Davante Adams running a route like a man whose team isn’t two touchdowns behind. He starts, stutters, jukes, shimmies, like a man who has the power in his toes and fingers to bring that entire coliseum to its knees; who intends to. The Raiders have looked like a team that stands no chance in hell, by the time it’s the second half — but they refuse to die. Even more peculiarly … I am willing them towards the end zone. 

I change the display picture on my WhatsApp. I undo all my follows. I ignore Telesco’s email, with the contract attached, ready for me to sign. I tell my agent at CAA to get Josh McDaniels, my old friend from New England, on the phone. I think I’m finally home?

New York, New York

It’s week 5, and the Raiders are playing arguably their best football all season. I happen to stir awake when they’re up 13 on the Chiefs at Arrowhead, a status that immediately fills me up with dread. In the morning, when it turns out Pat Mahomes and Travis Kelce have connected for multiple touchdowns in a comeback for the ages, I’m not even remotely surprised.

I’m at a Madden event (lols, ahem) in Miami when I leak to the press my intent to ask owner Mark Davis for a trade back to the East Coast. In a post-game interview, which I catch only the highlights of, Coach Josh McDaniels (who I’m familiar with from our New England days) expresses mild disappointment: “I really thought we were all moving in the same direction.”

I assure someone at ESPN, who then slides my remarks over to the crew at First Take, that my change of heart is a) totally on-brand and b) has absolutely nothing to do with the Raiders’ 1-4 record. “I can’t stay up til 2 AM every time we play a home game, and I can’t see myself in the city, in the future, to catch a game.” I add, referencing climate change models, “Is there even going to be a Las Vegas in 15 years?”

I make contact with friends on the Jets and Giants — Sauce (Gardner) and Saquon (Barkley) respectively — and promise the media a final, “absolutely final, you guys I’m telling you!” decision by gameday Sunday.

“I just wanna go home, fam.”

*

In 2007 I watched the New England Patriots romp all the way across a perfect season to Super Bowl 42. They were going to face a Giants team whose apparel I felt was either severely dated or quite bohemian, and whose logo I felt might make absolute sense in the midnight gloom of a Strokes or Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert. Tom Brady and Randy Moss were obviously amazing together, and I knew next to nothing about how Eli Manning could scrap and pull and scratch his way to gold. (I’d only see it first-hand a few years later, in another unlikely Super Bowl run for New York’s G-G-G-G-Men! …)

I decided that night, because the last thing a man wants to be in life is a bandwagoner, that whoever lost this game would be my team the following season; and thus I became a Patriots fan.

I never shook the New York in me — every book, every movie, every song I adore is New York; every hope, every dream, nearly every devastating loss I’ve suffered in this life is New York — but I clung tight to Boston sports because they lacked disorder. The Celtics kept their noses out of the media spotlight, didn’t indulge in the athletics of lavish trades. The Red Sox faithful cursed decent people everywhere they went. The Patriots, under Bill Belichick, taught me organisational discipline, cohesion. But New York was always knocking, so I told myself I’d defer. I’d make it over there someday and I’d buy all the appropriate jerseys. In the meantime, I’d despise the Giants for taking away that perfect season from New England, and for sucking wildly nearly every season after. 

Not knowing what to do with a modest background in Patriots lore, with the Patriots post- that MAGA hat, I’ve spent some time in the wilderness. I’ve tried everything and everyone: the Jets, the Chargers, the Saints, the Bears, the Raiders, even the Dolphins — but nothing sticks.

So what will it be, Lord? Will it be loving and hating Daniel Jones, or will it be loving and hating Coach Belichick? Will it be praying Saquon Barkley survives another down, or hoping Bailey Zappe zings his way towards one?

Will it be Foxboro, damn it, or the Met Life Stadium?

***