[jennthebenn]

Monday Night Football is a huge, important tradition in this country. This year
the very first Monday game happened to fall on September 11th. The potency
of mixing America's most beloved team sport with the remembrance of a
catastrophic blow to the nation's very soul should not be underestimated.

The Washington Redskins hosted the Minnesota Vikings at FedEx Field.
Patrick and I acquired free tix a week or so before the game and were ready
to ride the DC metro and trudge a mile or so to the stadium in heavy sweaters
advertising our loyalties (he, Skins; I, Vikes). I left work early to best wishes
from the various Redskins haters I pound keys alongside, and even a sincere
godspeed from the sole Hogs backer in the office. In all honesty, being the fan
of a team that lost 4 Super Bowls way before the Buffalo Bills did instills in one
this nagging neurosis, this unfailing kick to the shins. The Redskins, despite
a shit preseason, still boasted a tough defense.

A detour was needed at Patrick's parents residence. The speedometer of his
Accord had decided to stop working alongside the "check engine" light
blinking. It was determined that the car was running fine, but would need a
checkup soon.

Any frets either of us may have had about the car's durability to the DC metro
and back to Hagerstown were wiped away when a friend of Patrick's family
called and invited us to hop on board the bus he was renting to deliver some
friends to the game. Wow. The first thing I could think of was the Super Bowl
episode of The Simpsons wherein Homer arranges for he and several of
Springfield's to go to the big game and travels via bus:

Wally: Hehe, I'm sorry, the guys kind of made a mess in your bathroom...
Bus Driver: What bathroom...!

We made the short drive into Howard County and pulled into an impressive bit of acreage with a private residence, storage barn, tennis courts, picnic area...I had been here once before for the party honoring Patrick's father upon his retirement from firefighting. A few people were gathered around a smoking grill packed with fat sausages and a table with crackers, chips, pickles and condiments. I only knew the owner of the land, but quick pleasentries were dispensed, no small bit of guff being tossed in my direction thanks to the purple Vikes sweater I proudly donned.

Two large Greyhounds, one of each gender, stalked the gravel driveway where we all stood. The male, solid black, seemed thrilled to play with a brutalized Dunlop tennis ball. When he would drop it in front of either of us, we would kick it and chuckle as he went to fetch. Sometimes he didn't seem to get the game, as he would drop the ball, and one second later snatch it back up in his jaws. The female was an older dog, chocolate brown, and content largely to roll around on the grass. When they were together near us, the synchronized panting was hilarious.

The sausages were wonderful. I kept it light with just mustard as decoration and a homemade pickle on the side. Of course I guzzled a can of Budweiser.
There ended up being maybe 20 peeps on a nice Eyre bus, most repping Redskins via jerseys and shirts. (Washington is the number one sports team in America in terms of merchandise sales.) The only eyesores--relatively speaking--were my sweater and a black Marcus Allen Raiders jersey wore by a chubby dude who had the great honor of being the only passenger to seriously challenge me for title of "Fewest Words Said".

The ride was pretty quick (especially by DC standards) and smooth. It amused us both to see an Atlantic Coast Charters bus next to us loaded with Skins jerseys and even a few Vikings jerseys, and no less to see that this particular service is based in Hagerstown. They got ahead of us and some one in our bus made a comment re: Hagerstown, but I couldn't make it out due in part to the fact the seats across ours were in the midst of an exorcism.

My first sight of FedEx Field that day was in fact my first sight of FedEx Field any day; to deny my awe would mark me a hater. 80,000+ people would be jamming this place full, creating a go-team ruckus that didn't need ESPN's presence to account for its velocity and ferocity. But, it certainly didn't hurt.
Tailgaters were out in the fullest effect, a sea of burgundy and gold with only a smattering of purple and yellow to offset it. American flags were also de rigeur this night; all attendees received one to wave as part of the pregame and halftime festivities.

We headed to our seats, Section 225, row 10, seats 22 and 23 respectively. I picked seat 23 to plop my zoftig rear end into for two reasons: one, it was the very last seat at the left end of the row and second, my birthdate is October 23, 1977. The numbers 10 and 23 mean a great deal to me then when they appear one after the other (perhaps the oddest habit I have is when I catch sight of a clock that says 10:23. I will then stop and look at the time until it changes to 10:24. I contend in the gaze of all screwfaces that this is actually not as strange as it could be; I COULD have an alarm that alerted me to whenever it was 10:23, and then I would go out of my way to do the little staredown. But I'm not that geeked out.)

The sightline was tremendous; we were looking right down at an endzone (our seats officially "behind the 10 yard line") and even better for me, we were located behind the Vikings bench. A 5 buck program was perused to better acquaint ourselves with the players numbers. Since the dumping of Koren Robinson, the Vikes offense is now a what-could-be rather than a what-is. No more Cris Carter or Randy Moss types, or even Robert Smith for that matter. Brad "Pops" Johnson has Troy Williamson to throw the bomb to and Chester Taylor to hand off the pigskin to. Hmm. The Redskins, conversely, have Mark "Pops" Brunell chucking the ball to Santana Moss, Antwan Randle-El and Chris Cooley. Even the injured Clinton Portis is a threat on the ground.

We were surrounded by wonderful fans, who liked screaming and drinking, and both activities were performed as obnoxiously as can be, but at football games this is par for the course. (Funny how it can be that way at golf tournaments too.) I am a mild-mannered gal, and I choose to save my outpourings for when the match is decided, see. Patrick is much the same way, except for the "gal" part.

I especially adored the gaggle of Redskins rooters lining the wall at the very top of our seated area who sang "The Love Boat" when the Vikings players were doing stretches. I was going to bust out the song I wrote in honor of Redkins safety Sean Taylor's rap sheet, but decided to not break character. (His arrests have their own section on his Wikipedia page, holla!)


"I'm ready this year!" one face-painted dude announced. Well, clearly.

"It kills me to see Smoot on that team!" his friend lamented after watching the Vikes loosening up on the field. Ah, Vikes corner Fred Smoot, former Redskin and permanent inductee into the Jennifer Lee Benningfield Hall of Outstanding Athletes for his role in the Lake Minnetonka sex boat scandal. See, while Dante Culpepper was getting a piddling-ass lap dance, Freddy baby was manipulating a double-headed dildo into the vaginas of two surely-excited strippers. That is a great man! And when one stripper moved on, he continued with the other. A true outstanding citizen! No one covers the field like number 21.

The contests they have are always funny. Some loser had to guess the correct year and win something. I can't even remember, probably a goddamn $35 gift certificate to Chuck-E-Cheese. Anyway, he had to select the year in which Whitney Houston lipsynced (sung, whichever) the National Anthem at the Super Bowl and Nirvana released "Smells Like Teen Spirit". Oh yeah, cue those Bostonian chords and give us the options!

A: 1991
B: 1995
C: 1999

The guy, not being a total moron in spite of his choice of favorite team, guessed the correct answer of A. I could not help but point out to Patrick that of the three years presented as potential answers, in only one of them was Kurt Cobain actually alive.

Some fat pregame booster guy gets on the field and beseeches us to wave old glory and holler and give the Skins the 12th man edge.

Caught sight of ESPN's crew across the field; Chris Berman (who Patrick almost mistook for Tony Kornheiser), Tom Jackson, Michael "Retard" Irvin and Steve Young. No doubt they were badmouthing my Kings and bigging up the horribly overrated defense of those hog bastards. I felt a twinge of sadness that my presence at the game precluded getting to hear the commentary of Monday Night Football anchors Mike Tirico, Joe Theismann and Mr. Kornheiser.

Everytime the PA blared the MNF theme horns, the crowd went bonkers.

We sat back and took all in. We were only interrupted in our own private idaho when two dudes came up our row. One looked over and exclaimed, "Uh oh, looks like y'all are gonna be fightin' just like us!" Quite funny indeed.

Everyone rise for our national anthem...also, in addition to waving the flags, please yell "OH!" really loud when that part comes up in the song. Because that's way cool like Jim Nabors. It really does not make you seem like you should be calling the cops to report your missing chromosone. At all. And please do it at all future sporting events. Please also punctuate the patriotic fervor by chanting "U-S-A!" in the most beef-eating, demolition-derby-attending bellow you can manage. That's awesome. Here's a gun.