My N.F.L. with NFL.

Let me just preface this by saying that I've never been much of a sports guy.  Much to his chagrin, my  father's attempts at pushing me to play some "back yard ball" for much of my younger life did not end with me becoming a high school all-star; my tubby form ended up getting pushed a bit too hard and responded with a resounding disdain for the game entirely. While other boys my age idolized esteemed athletes like Jerry Rice and Emmit Smith, I was starstruck by Harry Potter and Frodo Baggins. A bright Titans jersey? Try a dull, Wal-mart polo. Year after year, as fall came and went, the football hype was met with my extreme apathy. Male family members were sure to inquire my team position or ask about the latest game, yet I remained oblivious.

It wasn't until my senior year in high school that I took any initiative whatsoever to learn about any organized sport. I'd begun a quest to try and open my mind to all different types of people, sports fans included. "What is it exactly," I pondered,"that gets these crazy, cheering bastards so excited about a bunch of guys playing a simple game?"A few close sports friend encouraged my newfound curiosity, eagerly chatted with me about sports, and even took me to the first UT Volunteer game of my adult life.  Suddenly, it all made so much sense: thousands of cheering fans, brothers and sisters united in a sea of orange, the adrenaline rush that gets us cursing, roaring, and punching at the air, that giddy drop in the pit of the stomach when the ball finally crosses the endzone. There's something enticing, almost animalistic about cheering for your home team; it's the true spirit of fellowship and camaraderie, almost "my tribe vs. your tribe" in nature.

The only time it's acceptable an orange that damn bright

Getting a job at a sports bar my freshman year didn't hurt either. With enormous screens on every wall, broadcasting ESPN 24/7, it's hard not to get immersed in the culture. Naturally, I stuck to the Vols through the good and the bad (mostly bad, but every dog has his day, right?) as they were my home team; unless you have some sort of family/historical/collegiate tie somewhere else, to cheer for another state's college team makes you a traitor in my eyes. Still, I noticed that it was quite a bit different for the NFL. I'd assumed everyone in these parts were huge Titans fans, but mostly noticed a general disinterest. While the restaurant would fill with enthusiasts of the Packers, Steelers, and Bears, there was hardly a Tennesse fan in sight. As one who was still fairly new to the game, this seemed strange, so I asked around. I was met with responses like "The first game I ever watched as a boy was the Ravens" or "My grandfather and I always watched the cowboys." It seemed that any sort of meaningful experience was an acceptable reason for affiliation with a given team. It seemed I'd missed out on a nostalgic attachment to any of these national groups, so I generally cheered for the team with most aesthetically pleasing uniform, biding my time til I found a reason to give a particular damn one way or the other.

My answer was found in one of the most unlikely of places imaginable, the party capital of the USA. I'm talking about a place of inebriated voodoo, monstrous demonstrations, and completely unfiltered, animalistic raging: Mardi Gras! One night in particular, during the parades of legend, I found myself a cheering madman, half a bottle of cheap whiskey safely deposited in my belly. As each parade would walk by, I would point at a particular gift-tosser in the hopes that I could get their attention, and get the better party favors. One particular sailor of these street-sailing leviathans was the catalyst for change and ultimately affirmed my NFL team. After catching his eye, I yelled with all my drunken might "SAINTS BABY!" He pauses, holds up a finger, then ducks down to emerge with an enormous Saints necklace, each black and gold bead as big as a mangos. Those very beads now hang on my bedroom wall, a testament to my deal with those New Orleans devil, a pact of Mardi Gras black magic.

I yell "WHO DAT!" more than anyone ought to

Despite my football progress, I found myself a bit aimless. How could I ever really get into this sport I'd grown to enjoy so much when I'm only just now starting to learn about it? I'd picked one team, great, but there were countless others, others that I know nothing about. The players too, that sports afaciendos chat and gossip about like they were old friends from high school. This task seemed daunting, and I wasn't sure where I'd even begin. After talking it over with a few friends who'd been invested in football since they could walk, we decided it was time I'd sign up for my first fantasy draft. I could cheer, not just for teams, but for individual players and their personal stats. I'd get a taste of each different team in the process.

Now, here I am, a new found love for the NFL, an avid Saints fan, already having won my first week of fantasy football. All that, coupled with a recent addiction to Madden '13, and maybe, after all these years, we may just have a sports guy in the making.

Oh, and if anyone is interested, here's a my starting fantasy team!

QB-Matt Stafford
RB-Frank Gore,
RB-Reggie Bush
RB/WR-Doug Martin
WR-Jordy Nelson
TE-Rob Gronkowski
K-Sebastion Janikowski
Bengals Defense