My son was born Honolulu Blue. A smack to his behind fixed that, and he turned a more normal pink.
He didn’t get into National Football League football until he was 10. He was fascinated by numbers, statistics and the history of the game. That year, the Lions went 0-16, the first team to not win a single game since the NFL went to a 16-game season. Mathematically, the worst team in NFL history.
When you’re born Honolulu Blue, your fan loyalty is unconditional: Lions posters on the wall, fridge magnets, coasters, homemade ornaments and hats and jerseys — even though the clothing sometimes fostered ridicule when worn in public. On our entertainment center, Joey Harrington bobbled his head whenever we roughhoused in the living room, his index fingers assuring us the Lions were No. 1.
Growing up a Lions fan meant enduring personal fouls. My son was almost 12 when we opened against our division rivals, the Bears, and we played well. We stared in horror at NFL infamy as the duplicity of the sketchy touchdown reception rule fell like a goal post on the Lions’ All-Pro receiver, Calvin Johnson. This call was so momentous in Lions’ history, and NFL history, that it led to remaking the rule — now the Calvin Johnson rule.
Life’s play clock keeps ticking, and when puberty knocked at my son’s door, so did hope as the Lions knocked at the door of a playoff. We traveled to his first game, Christmas Eve 2011. We played the Chargers and clinched a wildcard spot with a win!
My son’s throat was so hoarse from shouting at Ford Field he could barely talk the next day and, when he could, his voice changed. My little Lions fan was becoming a man.
The Lions crashed and burned in those playoffs. It took several years to make the postseason again, and it looked like something that hadn’t happened since 1991 was going to happen in our living room. The Lions played the Cowboys, and were beating them! We drank in hope like a dry sponge. We jumped up and down, and Joey bobbled like a drunken headbanger. We led the entire game, until the end.
Teens are known for rebellious nature, though that had seldom been part of my son’s transition to adulthood. This devastating loss brought out the beast, and after asking for permission, he flipped off the TV.
Now that my little Lions fan is a man, hope pounds in our hearts again. For lifetime fans, we hold hope with a certain amount of tension. We’ve hoped before. I remember when Joey Harrington was the third overall pick, and his bobblehead above my TV reminds me of the years we thought it was our time, but wasn’t. The higher we hoped, the harder we fell.
It’s not for me and my generation of fans that I beg the football gods for an NFC Championship win. I had 10 years of Barry Sanders and have seen the Lions in a championship game. For my 25-year-old son, the Lions previously made the playoffs four times, always a wild card, and the only time we made a game of it was the middle-finger incident.
This year is different. My son and I attended the Rams wildcard game. We screamed non-stop for three hours, and we left with sore throats and warm souls. We exited the stadium near midnight with 66k other elated fans wearing Honolulu Blue. It was single digits walking to the hotel, and we high-fived mittened hands and hugged bundled strangers. Even the cold streets of Motown are a love fest when the Lions roar!
Maybe I’ve misread Joey’s outstretched hands. While the Lions are two wins from being No. 1, perhaps these unconditionally loyal fans already are.
The higher we hope, the harder we could fall. Even if we get bruised black and Honolulu Blue again, we know we can take it. How intoxicatingly sweet a Super Bowl appearance will be for the disappointed, unconditionally sanguine people who know seeing a longtime underdog win offers hope to us all.