This Is My Bratwurst, Broken for Thee
The Dangerous Sacraments of Pro Football Fandom
Brian D. Ellison
July 1, 2001
It's 9:00 on Sunday morning, and the parking lot is already crowded. Tired families emerge from their cars, parents unfastening car seats while children wipe the sleep from their eyes. It's cold out and threatening to snow, but it's Sunday, so this is where the family is supposed to be. It isn't Pentecost, but everyone's wearing red.
The scene, of course, is Parking Lot G at Arrowhead Stadium, the home of the Kansas City Chiefs. These families are here to "tailgate"-to share bratwurst and beer, prognostication and potato salad. Look closer: families join into extended clans and social groups, which vary only slightly from week to week. The call and response are repeated: the mournful confession of the team's shortcomings ("Could be tough out there today") met with the eschatological hope of victory ("Our boys can do it"). There are smiles and handshakes all around, especially as the temperature rises, food fills stomachs, and the beverages flow. And the smoke of a thousand portable grills curls toward the heavens carrying that day's plans for camaraderie and success.
In an hour or two, some of these people will meander over to the stadium and watch a football game. They will cheer or condemn acts of strength and skill, mourn or celebrate the advancement of a ball across white lines. They will question those in authority, debate minutiae with people they care about, exult with strangers, and bow down to distant men wearing bright-colored numbers on their shirts.
Clearly, something is happening here.
The Kansas City Chiefs finished the 2000 season with seven wins and nine losses. Their cumulative win-loss record over the last three seasons is 23-25. After a record-breaking string of six consecutive postseason appearances in the early 1990s, they have not been in the playoffs since 1997. They are not the worst team in the National Football League, but they are certainly not the best.
But in this cosmopolitan midwestern city, the Chiefs are an untouchable force. They command a respect that is not dependent on performance. They sell out almost 80,000 seats at nearly every game, and hundreds of thousands more gather around televisions and keep radios on as they go about their work and play. A special section of the newspaper dissects every aspect of team life week after week during the season, and no off-season move goes unscrutinized.
Kansas City is hardly alone in hosting such a phenomenon, of course, and every city, every country, has its communal fetishes-events that captivate the populace beyond all reason. Much of the world has its soccer teams. Some cities are basketball or baseball crazy. Pamplona runs its bulls, and Louisville its horses. But in the religion of the NFL, and in the sect of Chiefsism specifically, there exists a peculiar zeal that makes Sunday morning seem the most appropriate time for its congregations to gather.
Returning again to the parking lot, what one actually sees are row after row of happy parishioners. Each one comes for more than a dose of football. There is, in pre-game discussion, a healthy dose of nonsensical speculation about the week's game, but also plenty of catching up. Jack has lost his job, Mary's son is in trouble again, Sarah won an award, Bob's mother-in-law passed away. Small groups form, disperse, and re-form. Advice is offered, consolation given, hope expressed.
It is the textbook definition of the Greek koinonia, which New Testament translations render as "fellowship," "community," "sharing," or even "communion." It is the coming together of people who share something in common, behaving by choice in such a way that they might have more of their lives in common. Churches recognize the need for community as a basic human longing, and build it informally into Sunday morning schedules and more structurally into programs. In the invisibility of the transcendent, it is the community that mediates the Almighty One to the mortal one. On Sundays in Parking Lot G, thousands of people experience the only real community they will know all week. This food tastes great, and the company's never been better. It is not unusual for passing strangers to be invited to hang around for a hot dog or cocoa or (as the day goes on) a different sort of beverage. People listen to each other, and grace abounds.
Inside the stadium, one sees even more clearly the community that has been established. Every stadium section contains men and women, black and white, young and old, rich and poor. Among the season ticket holders I happen to know, there are retired divorced women in their sixties, families of four with school-age children, single former fraternity brothers in their twenties, and executives with company seats. There are more men than women in this group, but not overwhelmingly so. People of different races mingle with no discernible separation here. Many come from the metropolitan area, but many also drive in from far-flung regions of rural Missouri and Kansas. And although the cost for a family of four to buy the cheapest tickets, park, and have a meal at the game now is well over 100 dollars, there are plenty of working-class folk who have decided this is the best way to spend their annual recreation budget. Fully diverse and radically inclusive, the Chiefs open their doors to the entire spectrum of Kansas City residents.
Speaking and listening together. Breaking bread and offering the cup. Part of a group that is diverse and inclusive. United with a shared sense of purpose. All in all, it's not a bad way to spend a Sunday.
Now flash back to a gameless Sunday, two Januaries ago. That was the day-23 January 2000-that Chiefs Linebacker Derrick Thomas flipped and rolled his SUV on Interstate 435 northwest of Kansas City. Fast-dropping temperatures and freezing rain had created surprisingly treacherous conditions. He had been driving two friends, one of whom was killed instantly. Thomas and the other passenger were seriously injured. On 8 February, Thomas, whose recovery-despite his being paralyzed from the chest down-appeared to be progressing well, died suddenly from complications to his injuries.
News of the death swirled quickly through the city. Flowers and notes of affection piled up at the stadium and at Thomas's home. There were candlelight vigils. Thousands stood for hours in the cold, tears streaming down their face, honoring the life of this man they knew only as a great football player. Public officials weighed in with expressions of communal grief. Thomas's memorial service was broadcast live on local television stations. His jersey number, 58, appeared on lapel pins and storefronts and car windows and dozens of front-yard shrines.
On 23 January, eleven others were killed on the icy roads, including ten people in a single 24-car chain-reaction pile-up about 10 miles from Thomas's crash site, the most deadly accident in Kansas City in half a century. Their lives were not similarly mourned by most citizens of Kansas City.
And other details of Thomas's accident, and of his life, began to emerge-details that one might expect would slow the outpouring of grief. Thomas and his passengers were not wearing seat belts, despite the dangerously icy conditions. Witnesses testified that Thomas was exceeding the 70-miles-per-hour speed limit. He was no saint; he left no will to provide for the seven children he fathered by five different mothers.
But the public grieving continued unabated for several weeks. Thomas was elected quickly to the Chiefs' Hall of Fame. Scholarships were established in his name. Plaques and posters dedicated to the fallen hero still hang in restaurants and other businesses.
Derrick Thomas was, no doubt, a decent fellow. But what specifically in his death tapped into this reservoir of emotion and longing? The grieving in Kansas City reminded many of the national mourning in Great Britain following Diana's tragic accident; at least in the princess's case, her royal status had made her something of a symbol for her entire nation. What did Derrick Thomas symbolize? What died that day, and why did so many people care so much?
No one seems able to answer this question fully. Friends and colleagues from other cities point to similar experiences in their own areas. A friend from Colorado recalls that the announcement that John Elway would be retiring as quarterback for the Denver Broncos was treated with the solemnity-and prominence in media coverage-of the death of a head of state. And the day that a head of state really did die-the day Yitzhak Rabin of Israel was assassinated-the Cleveland Plain-Dealer gave the story equal placement with coverage of the departure of the Cleveland Browns for Tennessee.
But the outpouring of grief for Derrick Thomas was more than an off-kilter assignment of priorities. Thomas was, for true believers, unstoppable: a team leader in tackles and sacks, he had nine Pro Bowl appearances and an eleven-year history that connected him to his team's glorious past. Thomas's death forced fans to accept an unpleasant reality: he was not the immortal one they supposed him to be. When glory on the football field is the source of a people's hope, then the death of a star is that people's fall of Jerusalem. The death of hope-well, that's what public outpourings of grief are for.
The word fan, a shortened form of fanatic, comes from the Latin word fanaticus, meaning "inspired by a deity, frenzied." That word derives from fanum, Latin for "temple." The word's use continues to be true to its etymology.
I first learned about the religious standing of the Chiefs the day I was installed as pastor in a Kansas City suburb-the church I serve is about a half-hour drive from Arrowhead Stadium. It was a Sunday afternoon service, and the church was full, but not nearly as full as I had expected. A colleague began his "charge" to me with sage advice: "Don't ever, ever again schedule anything at the same time as a Chiefs game." He was only half-joking. The reality is that on that Sunday, or on any Sunday when the Chiefs are playing at home, or when their televised away game is in the morning, the attendance at our services is 25 or 30 people less than average-about a sixth of the congregation is missing. The mere suggestion of an after-church supper, a youth group outing, or a highway cleanup day on a Chiefs Sunday invariably raises eyebrows. Many colleagues confirm that I am not alone in this experience.
Maybe it is not a bad thing. It is clear that the NFL meets many of the same needs that the community of faith has always sought to meet. People experience community. They are kept out of trouble. One might even argue that the Chiefs do it better than the church: Sunday morning remains the most segregated hour of the week, but Sunday afternoon at the stadium decidedly is not. And if some of the church-going regulars take a few Sundays off from worship, what real long-term damage is done? It's not exactly bending the knee to Caesar.
While we're at it, one might note the array of other wholesome activities that also vie for that precious Sunday morning time. Children of all ages and adults hustle off to early-morning baseball games and soccer practices. High school students pile onto buses for out-of-town trips with band or debate. These activities provide a sense of belonging, a unity of vision and purpose. What parent is not proud of a child who commits time to the team? What greater lessons are there than the sweet taste of a well-deserved success or the growth that comes from a hard-fought defeat?
There is nothing wrong with being a sports fan-I am one myself. I worked my way through high school umpiring softball, and through college working as an official scorer and statistician for school teams. I coach a third-grade boys soccer team, and am on pace to attend two dozen Kansas City Royals baseball games this season. At games, I cheer and yell and resent and recover, and rightly so. Participation in and devotion to sports can be good things, beneficial to individuals, families, and cities. Involvement in sports and being part of a sports-supporting community occupy an important place in a mostly disconnected twenty-first century America, a place once also occupied by service clubs, political parties, bridge clubs, the town festival, and the 4-H Club. As much else that binds people together in civic settings fades away, sports persist as venues for children and adults to give and receive, to share and interact and grow.
Chiefs football is not, however, a church. And the elevation of sports to the status of alternative spirituality should sound the alarm bell within the community of Christian faith: what have we been doing-and not doing-that leaves people looking to football for fellowship, service opportunities, pastoral care, and identity formation? What has happened to our worship, that attending a football game seems like a fair trade for the opportunity to join one's brothers and sisters in the presence of the Almighty God, singing praises, hearing God's very Word proclaimed, and receiving the ordinary means of grace?
Sport, unfortunately, is a poor substitute for sacrament. The displacement of faith by fanaticism-even with its genuine virtues-in the end falls short. Indeed, it may even be dangerous; the worship of fallen heroes is an impediment to the worship of a crucified Messiah.
The congregants at Arrowhead are worshipping in what is basically a make-believe world. They have been conditioned to realize-rightly-that in the end it doesn't make much difference whether the team wins or loses. It is, clichÉ though it may be, only a game. And yet knowing this, thoughtful people continue to invest enormous emotional and physical energy, not to mention time and resources. We uphold this stewardship as acceptable, even as it leaves less left over for things that are more than a game-things of eternal significance. Indeed, it becomes increasingly difficult to convince one's hearers that anything is of eternal significance when the activity at the center of their earthly lives is for entertainment purposes only. What is absolute truth in a mind where the most absolute outcome-a win or a loss, making the playoffs or not-is a fading memory only a few months later?
And because the Kansas City Chiefs are-let us make no mistake about this-first and foremost a business, all "truth" is determined by the shifting winds of consumer desires. Profit motive, not honest pursuit of goodness, drives everything. While the Church must (or should) sometimes say things people do not want to hear, a football franchise is bound by no such obligation. Football ultimately makes its claim only on the consumer's wallet, while faith demands one's entire life.
Sadly, the koinonia created through football is, in the end, a false koinonia. Trace it down to its roots and you'll find that it is grounded, finally, in … well, just football. But the koinonia of which the Bible speaks, and to which the Church remains called today, is rooted not in itself, but in Christ. Christian community is Christian because the Spirit fills it and breathes through it and transforms it. The transcendent enlivens and empowers the fleshly. Any other community is not necessarily bad, but it isn't true. And if it supplants true community by creating a false sense of fulfillment in its communicants, it is no longer harmless. It's dangerous.
Every September, year after year, hope lives again. This season, the Kansas City Chiefs have a new coach and a new quarterback. If it works out, they will go to the Super Bowl. If not, they'll have another chance next time. The Church, too, is always being given another chance. Following a resurrected one, we can believe that our fellowship and service and education and communal life can be resurrected too.
The Church could look a lot more like Parking Lot G. Acceptance of all comers, unselfish sharing of one's own gifts, a sense of celebration amidst the ordinariness of life, a devotion that infects lives beyond Sunday morning. But even more importantly, the Church must be clear in its own mind what it has to offer those folks in Lot G: a purpose worthy of one's time and treasures, guidance for living and not just playing, a relationship of greater depth and longer duration-even eternity.
The Chiefs must be the Chiefs, and nothing more. The Church must be the Church, and nothing less. When it strives to be the same Church that was born on Pentecost-filled with the Spirit, prepared to transform the world-then it is truly the Church. Then, hope really lives.
Brian D. Ellison (Kansas City RQ Forum) is coach of the Southern Platte County Flaming Dragons third-grade boys soccer team and, as time permits, pastor of a nearby Presbyterian church.
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