Thanksgiving for a Native Detroit Lioness

There are only two times a year I just may possibly-- but not definitely-- be found watching (a minute or two) of football; one, of course, is the Superbowl, pretty near the half time show on the off-chance to see a random nipple; second, on Thanksgiving, to see the sweet mascot team of my childhood fumble, whimper and fuck shit up. Call me sadistic (or is it masochistic?), but I just love them Detroit Lions.

As all American XX carriers know, for decades it is reliably the worst football game in any league. If anything, it's awesome just to hear Native Detroit males yell, swear and give the TV the bird as they get another brewskie (we're across a small lake from Canada). Spectating the Thanksgiving Lions Game is more a tribal ritual of self hatred and testosterone than true sports watching. Yell, yell, yell at fate and misfortune of odds, at the way the world is, and the way it will always be! (piece of furniture gets punched).



This year the badness of their football was outstanding. In the second to last play of the game (some sort of "down"-- I had to transcribe football-ease verbatim from my little brother, mind you, but then water got on my note pad, blah blah blah) was a pass that should have been as easy to make into a touch down as a store-bought pumpkin pie. But so goes pie to the face, and our sweet Lion fumbled and the cursed ball bounced off into the end zone, where the smart assed Lions mascot, Rory the Lion, slid on the ball to demonstrate how it's done (tsk tsk). The player who blew the play bounced the football on Rory's stuffed animal head. This "fuck you, dude" moment was replayed by the bored sportscasters some six times, with ample psychoanalytic analysis.

Things were not always this way. Being a music nut at an early age, I remember, once, in the early 80s that the Lions were doing well. They were all the rage and took the then-hit Queen song "Another One Bites the Dust" and sang over with lyrics detailing every team's future destruction at their hands, all led by the hot leading player Bubba someone-or-other. We were Detroiters with a shitty has-been auto industry full of gas-guzzling clunkers, but our team was winning and we were on fire. But even that year, the curse of fate was switched on and they fumbled out of the play-offs. (Or something.)

A regular repertoire of Lions watching would be too much. But on the last Thursday of every November, it is perfect. We watch the Lions and scream at that ugly, deserted, forgotten beloved kicked-around city that we came from, cursing the players for our disappearing home, our disappearing past, and our list of life grievances and dreams that will never quite pan out. For no fault of our-- or their-- own.