By Scott Graber
It is Monday, early, and I’m in the lobby of the AC Marriott Hotel in Spartanburg. There is a breakfast under way at the other end of the minimalist, art book-accessorized, black-and-white themed lobby. But I’m going to wait until Susan arrives before choosing between the oatmeal, omelet, and sugar-dusted doughnuts offered-up by Marriott this morning.
Susan and I are on a three-day, Interstate-avoiding road trip through the Upstate. We’ve seen Elko, White Pond and Ninety-Six, knowing that two hurricanes are lurking off Florida but determined to be slightly reckless in our dotage and eventual demise.
Last night we walked up Main Street and into Spartanburg’s red-bricked, pedestrian-friendly downtown finding Delaney’s Irish Pub. Susan ordered her usual glass of Chardonnay; to which our attractive bartender replied, “You do understand this is an Irish bar specializing in 30 different kinds of Jameson and 200 kinds of beer.”
Susan persisted and the bartender said she did remember one dusty, half-filled bottle containing what appeared to be wine but would make no promises about provenance or if it was potable.
When Susan asked if it was “buttery or oaky?” The bartender replied that it was “white.”
Delaney’s was illuminated by low-hanging strings of white Christmas-tree lights and multiple monitors, all focused on live, faraway football. There was a crowd of 40 patrons, who drank Guinness Stout, keeping their eyes focused on the monitors and making comments about meniscus injuries and coaches who should be shopping around for alternative employment.
Many of you know that my Citadel roommate, Bill Stansbury, religiously follows the Ravens, and some years ago, we both actually attended a game in downtown Baltimore. One that basis, and the fact that I once dated a dark-eyed young woman from Baltimore, my eyes were on the monitor that featured the Baltimore Ravens and the Kansas City Chiefs.
I knew at that moment Bill was watching this game in Annapolis; that he was unhappy with his beloved Ravens; and the least I could do was join him (telepathically) in his time of need.
Football has become, for many Americans, their only recreation on the weekend and, now, there is a game every day of the week except Tuesday and Wednesday. Football, in these times of division, has become the one topic that everybody can discuss without devolving into a shouting match or experiencing a mini-stroke.
But, for me, football remains a mystery. Why, for example, does one love the Philadelphia Eagles?
The easy answer is the Eagles win most of their games. And yes, most of us want to be connected with winning.
But why do we care about a group of journeymen athletes who change teams and jerseys like the rest of us change our Tommy Hilfiger brand underwear?
Why do we care about men who grew up in, say, Nebraska? Men who played football at three or four different colleges? Men who have no appreciation for the work that goes into a Mummer’s Day Parade? Men who don’t know that the pop hit “Philadelphia Freedom” is an homage to Billie Jean King? Men who have no appreciation for Good and Plenty (a pink and black candy) or TastyKake?
Many may remember the movie “Silver Linings Playbook” starring Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence, which was set in Philadelphia and focused on the all-consuming allure of the Eagles
(This movie also has a sparkling exchange between Cooper and Lawrence over the relative merits of various anti-depressants; and yes, I do have a soft spot for Lawrence, who lent my son her bicycle while she was shooting “X-Men” on Jekyll Island.)
But the most interesting character was Robert De Niro who played an Eagles fan. He was also a grizzled, superstitious gambler who bet his modest savings on the outcome a single game.
Notwithstanding this kind of bizarre and illogical behavior (not to mention putting one’s family at risk), why do millions of people — a huge cohort that extends across race, ethnicity, morphology and snacking preferences — sit down every weekend and tie their happiness to eleven rhino-sized strangers with whom they have no connection?
I can’t say I understand this behavior, but I know that these games kept the folks in Delaney’s transfixed — sometimes yelling, sometimes introspective, sometimes mumbling obscenities into their beer — for more than four hours.
This Upstate bar, far from Dublin, was a small, darkened island of happiness in these troubled and difficult times.
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.
