Jackie Wells-Fauth
Dear Mr. O’Connell:
For years now, watching you coach the Minnesota Vikings football team, I have called you “Kevin.” This is a friendly address, designed to make me comfortable with the man who has ably coached the Vikings, the team of choice for my father and then my husband. But not today, Mr. O’Connell. Today, we have issues!
I ask so little of these football games when I accompany my husband to watch. I try to ignore the fireworks shooting off in the stadium which are such realistic gunshots that I always clutch my chest and check for blood.
I deal with the drinkers and the crazy dressers with the Vikings horns. I manage to deal with the people next to me who use the bathroom fifteen times during the game via walking on my feet and I even, over the years, have learned to tolerate the so-called “SKOL clap.” Although, I will admit watching an entire stadium doing that makes me wonder what else we could con thousands of people into doing together.
But what I really come to see is a player dressed in purple, with a ball he has just caught in a thrilling movement tucked under his arm, charging down the field, side-stepping and out-running desperate opponents clutching hopelessly at him as he dashes madly into the endzone amid the screams, cheers, fireworks and yes, even the huge Viking horn trumpeting approval.
A touchdown, Mr. O’Connell, that’s what I am talking about. A touchdown. Not a touchback or an extra point or even (and I pause to draw a patient breath here) a field goal. No, I want a touchdown!
When I attend that Vikings game and endure all the noise and hysteria, I am there for one experience and one experience only—a touchdown, or several if you like.
So, why am I writing to you today, the day after your game against the Miami Dolphins? Because in that game, in the mighty Viking fortress of US Bank Stadium, I was robbed of this experience. Oh yes, you won the game, but not once, through four quarters and five field goals, did I get to see a man in purple, in the end zone, spiking a ball. I cannot have been alone in my “despair.”
And you had an opportunity to satisfy my deepest desire in a football game. With two minutes left, suddenly, the opening came: Murray shoots the ball down the field to Hockenson. We are on our feet, cheering. Hockenson is taking it down to the endzone, he is dodging other players like mad. He’s going to do it! And then it happened. He slid to the ground inches from the goal line. And it wasn’t a Miami Dolphin who grounded him, he did it himself.
Now, I’m told by those who know more about football than I do, that this was likely your strategy. A way to hang onto the ball, since your five field goals had you ahead. If you had made that touchdown (like I wanted) the Dolphins might have gotten the ball back and made their own score. Now, from what I saw, this was unlikely, but you chose to secure the win rather than make me happy. And so, today, I am writing to express my displeasure—I’m sure that will cause you great distress when you read this.
Okay, so my husband says you will never see this and I should just deal with the fact that you devised the best strategy for the game, but I am still upset. And not only me. The guy sitting next to me was also upset. Okay, he was upset because when I jumped up to cheer for Hockenson, I kicked his beer over on his foot. But still, both of us were upset and at least my upset could have been avoided.
No doubt, I will recover from my disappointments and will again be cheering for the Minnesota Vikings and calling you Kevin, but it will take time. And I will be especially cheering in the next game for my new hero—the field goal kicker Reichard. Enjoy the rest of the season, but be mindful: I am watching you! SKOL Vikings!
