When I'm lucky I can still see them on the fuzzy, black and white eight-inch screen on a snow-covered football field. My father told me they were the Rams and since I'd seen fit to shirking chores to watch the game with him they would be my team. "You follow the team that plays where you live. We live in Los Angeles, so the Rams are our team."
I was awed by my team. They really did look like rams; all white with dark trimming and large white horns wrapping around a dark helmet, which, I rightly imagined, was blue. They were playing another team with horns, the Vikings of Minnesota. As the afternoon grew dark and my dad's futile attempts at explaining the 'down' system drifted away with the sun I stared at the screen as the white-clad heroes, splotched with mud, either approached the ball bravely for another try or dug in to stop the enemy.
The game ended, the Rams lost, dinner was ready and the chores awaited another day. The Los Angeles Rams, I told myself. That's my team. I couldn't wait for school the next day when I could tell everybody. I had a team: The Rams of Los Angeles. That's how I see them when I'm lucky. When I'm not so lucky I see Georgia glomming onto the Superbowl trophy, her mad eyes locking on Kurt Warner, drivel running down her chin as she paws at the trophy and licks her lips at the players. John Shaw is hiding under her dress and Ram's fans everywhere are celebrating as I turn off my TV. Hating the Ram's hurts almost as much as loving them did.
